The World Ahead
by JensPen
Summary: Sequel to Home is Behind. "In the dark times that came, their story inspired courage and a unity among the races which would be vital to the success of the Free Peoples. Far, far away, in an entirely different universe, Thorin Oakenshield was plotting the best way to murder the infernal contraption which Gemma LaRoche called an "alarm clock."
1. The Legend and the Truth

**This is the sequel to my story _Home is Behind_. If you have not read that story you should definitely do so before reading this to avoid confusion.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the Hobbit or associated material.**

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Chapter 1: The Legend and the Truth

 _History became legend. Legend became myth._

– _J. R. R. Tolkien_

Their tomb lay in the heart of the mountain, and had become a sacred place for the people of Erebor. Dwarves, men, and even elves came from all across Middle Earth to view the magnificent sight and pay their respects. Warriors came to visit in hopes of receiving the same blessing that had surely graced the four figures for whom the tomb had been built. Mourners were plentiful, though few who had actually been there were still around.

The crypt was not a drab and somber place, but rather a place of beauty. The walls were decorated with stunning frescoes, painted in a multitude of colours and depicting a range of scenes from the adventure which had led to the reclamation of the Lonely Mountain. Gemstones and precious metals were inlaid in the walls too, and in the torchlight they glittered, illuminating the room in a surreal and whimsical fashion. The rich decorations lacked only the presence of gold; despite the dwarven love for that metal, it was prohibited from even entering the tomb.

In the centre of the room there were four ornately carved stone sarcophagi, and at the head of each stood an effigy of the coffin's owner. The statues of two young dwarven princes were on either end. They looked regal and courageous, but the artist had also captured an air of mischief in the stone, in the quirk of their lips and, somehow, the humour in their marble eyes. These statues stood watch over coffins which held the remains of their subjects, the twin princes lost in the great battle.

In between these coffins stood two more, yet these coffins remained open, proudly displaying their lack of contents, for their owners did not reside in their tomb. They had no need of coffins.

Their statues depicted a king and queen, joined at the hands. The king was clearly dwarven, and had been shown as both mighty and loving at the same time, a simple crown adorning his head. Depicted in stone was the large oaken branch which had covered his forearm as the eponymous shield, and the elven sword the king had favoured in his final battle. Here stood a replica of a legendary king, never to be forgotten by the mountain's residents, but never to once more grace the halls he had fought for.

The statue of the queen was a little more perplexing, for there had never been a human queen of Erebor. And yet there she stood, a silver loop around her head, dressed in regal clothing. As the clothing suggested, the sculptor clearly had never met the woman in real life, but her strength was obvious in the set of her shoulders and the muscles of her stone arms, and the twist of her mouth at once captured her humour and stubbornness. The few remaining dwarves who had known her had given the artist a very specific description.

As the years passed, fewer and fewer people believed that she had existed at all. She became legend, the Queen whose name had been forgotten just as her story had been twisted. Indeed, the legend of the quest for Erebor had been told and retold so many times that it was significantly different from the original tale. Only a small number of families, those of the original Company members, had any inkling of the true events surrounding the king and queen, and they kept it to themselves. What really happened was more fantastic than even the most inventive of retellings.

And yet, their legend was told for generations upon generations. In the dark times that came, their story inspired courage and a unity among the races which would be vital to the success of the Free Peoples. They became the foundation on which the glorious kingdom of Erebor was built once again.

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Far, far away, in an entirely different universe, Thorin Oakenshield was plotting the best way to murder the infernal contraption which Gemma LaRoche called an "alarm clock."

He rolled out of the overly plush bed that he still wasn't quite used to, nearly sprawling on the hardwood floor and pulling the numerous blankets and quilts off the bed. Mumbling about devilry and overly-complicated technology, Thorin pressed random buttons until the shrill beeping ceased. Gemma was already up, and could be heard bustling about in the kitchen of her– no, _their_ – little flat. It was her first day back to the office, just over two weeks after their arrival in this world.

Thorin pulled on one of the loose shirts she had bought for him, gingerly so as to avoid stretching his bandage-wrapped torso full of stitches, and some extremely comfortable trousers that Gemma called sweat pants, which he had become quite fond of. Barefoot, he padded out to the kitchen, a room painted in pale green with dark wooden cabinets and shiny steel appliances that were far too complicated for Thorin to even understand, let alone use. This was quite a shame, because Thorin was clearly the better cook among the two. Gemma could cook only three things with the confidence that she would not burn down the building: pasta, scrambled eggs, and soup. Thorin was inclined to believe that the last one didn't count, as in this world it came already prepared in a can, and all she really had to do was warm it up. Nevertheless, Gemma had immediately dubbed mastering the kitchen devices as a priority on Thorin's long list of things he needed to figure out, right up there with modern political systems, world events, socially acceptable language, and Gemma's favourite TV shows.

This morning, Gemma was preparing the extremely "complicated" dish of cereal. She stood at the island counter with her back to him, eyes focus on the news broadcast on the television and pouring far too much milk into her bowl. Television: another thing that completely baffled him. Gemma insisted that all that really mattered was that he begin watching _Orphan Black_ as soon as absolutely possible. He'd just nodded his head as if he knew what she was talking about, an action which had become common over the course of the last week.

"Your bowl is going to overflow," Thorin told her by way of greeting, trying to mask the smirk in his voice.

Gemma's shoulders tensed in surprise at his voice, but then she looked down at her milky breakfast, swore under her breath, and jerked the milk jug away. She been a bit more jumpy and prone to daydreaming since they'd arrived here, and Thorin was a bit worried that the aftereffects of the battle and all that she'd gone through were taking more of a toll than she let on, or that perhaps the debilitating anxiety disorders resulting from her previous horrors had begun to catch up to her once more. Also, he was fairly certain, despite her protests, that she was still a bit uncomfortable with someone else living in her home.

But when Gemma looked over her shoulder at him, her bright smile seemed genuine, and elicited one of his own. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and pressed a kiss to her shoulder, making Gemma blush in a way he'd never thought possible. He still marvelled at the fact that _he_ could evoke this type of response from _her_ , almost as much as he marvelled at the fact he was alive, in her world, living in her home and sleeping in her bed. It all seemed impossible, when only two weeks ago he had been stabbed through the stomach and lay bleeding out at the top of Ravenhill.

"You look lovely," Thorin told her, refocusing on the woman in front of him. Gemma was clad in flattering strait legged black dress pants, with a matching black blazer over an emerald shirt. Her hair was slicked up in a no-nonsense bun and her makeup was minimal but made her look a bit stern. Black kitten heels covered her feet to complete the professional ensemble, and an ID badge and empty gun holster already sat on her hips. She did look lovely, of course she did, but Thorin couldn't help but compare her to the woman he had journeyed with. She'd worn stretchy trousers and a rumpled windbreaker, had thick chestnut hair with a mind of its own, and had been a vision of strength and defiance and unruly sex appeal. He held the same woman in his arms now, and as much as he loved her, a tiny part of him feared that he had no idea who she really was in this world.

They ate their cereal, accompanied with a brilliant drink called orange juice, together on the couch while watching the news. This, too, was surreal to Thorin; how quickly knowledge could be transmitted here. One could learn about a tragedy taking place half a world away only hours after it occurred. This world was so much more connected, so much closer. But more than that, the news here made Thorin sad. Every morning since he'd come back to Gemma's apartment, they had watched the morning news while eating breakfast, and every morning the television showed him new horrors from this world: a boy murdered on the other side of the same city they were in, thousands of people fleeing their war torn homelands far away, an elderly woman losing all her money to something called investment scam. There were so many more ways for things to go wrong in this world, so many complexities and worries that had never been a part of his life before. Everyone here knew it too; the news tried to end their segments with something happy, images of babies or puppies and whatnot, but it was so obviously forced, so clearly and unapologetically designed to distract from whatever awful things had been on before. Thorin shook his head, trying to dispel his depressing thoughts. This was his world too now, and there was no use dwelling on the negatives. Besides, things weren't _always_ bad here.

Thorin, still recovering from his grave injury and utterly untrained in social customs, had spent a great majority of his time locked in the apartment, educating himself on this place. Gemma had been running around frantically ever since they'd come here, desperately trying to form believable stories and get everything in order once more. After all, she was supposed to be dead, and he never existed in this world, two facts that created major complications. She hadn't been completely on her own, thank _Mahal_ she'd had help, but it was still difficult for her to constantly be by his side answering his every question. So, at Thorin's insistence, Gemma had piled the kitchen table with great big books about, well, _everything_ : ancient and modern history tomes, guides to understanding politics, math and sciences textbooks, sociological reports, novels, and pop culture magazines. Thorin delved in with a strange eagerness, despite knowing that bringing himself up to speed would be a long and impossible task. Gemma had also shown him how to tune the TV in order to get to the... _channel_ , that was the word, which showed endless documentaries about everything from historic events to famous film stars to strange animals. Despite understanding only about half of what was being said in these books and programs, Thorin set about his task with uncharacteristic patience and completely-characteristic stubbornness. It gave him something to do, a way to feel useful. More importantly, it was a way to distract himself from all that had happened recently, not only his arrival here but all the terror that had come before it in his home world.

Before Thorin was even half finished his breakfast, Gemma was springing up from the couch with an empty bowl, bustling around the kitchen to collect her bag and lunch. She stopped by the door, checking her reflection in the mirror in a way that Thorin would have called self-conscious if it had been anyone other than Gemma he was referring to. Gemma, as far as he knew, didn't get nervous. Not unless there was a genuine reason to; for example, a fire breathing dragon or talking about one's feelings. Thorin was fairly sure that Gemma would classify both equally terrifying; after all, it had taken them ages just to admit that they didn't actually hate each other, let alone that they loved one another. Perhaps, he amended, that was why she was nervous now. She had mandatory therapy to attend later in the day. Thorin didn't fully understand what that was, but it sounded like it involved a lot of talking about feelings. Thorin knew that was more likely to incur annoyance than nerves. He'd been listening to her complain about it for the past week.

"You're going to be okay here on your own today?" Gemma asked without turning away from the mirror. She was putting her earrings in now, biting her lip in concentration. "There's food for lunch in the fridge, and I've written my phone number down in case you forgot." she continued before he could reply. "Do you remember how to use the phone?" Thorin had to smile at her mothering. It was one of the things he'd least expected about her (not that anything about Gemma LaRoche had been _expected_ ), and perhaps one of his favourite things.

"I do," he replied gruffly, before letting a smirk slip into his voice. "I'm not entirely useless, you know." Even if he'd felt like it ever since arriving in this world.

"Oh, I know," Gemma replied saucily, sidling back over to the couch. She pecked him on the cheek, but Thorin turned his head and captured her lips with his, drawing her into a passionate kiss. When they parted, Gemma was a bit short on breath, and Thorin's ego swelled knowing that he was the cause. But all she said was, "Well, now you're wearing more lipstick than I am." She winked and headed for the door, grabbing her keys from the cranberry glass bowl on the armoire.

Gemma paused at the door one more time. Worrying her lip again, she asked "You're sure you'll be okay?"

Thorin didn't like being apart from her. Perhaps that was leftover fear from that time in Lake-town when he'd thought she'd left him and returned to her world, or perhaps, just maybe, he was still a little afraid here. But Thorin just twisted his mouth in a closed-lip smile and replied, "I'll be fine."

He listened to Gemma lock the door, and then watched from the window as, eight floors below, Gemma hopped into a big black car that was waiting for her at the curb. It was probably Parker, her boss and the only other person that knew the real story of her disappearance. When the car drove out of sight, Thorin turned back to the apartment. The silent, incredibly empty apartment. A twisting feeling returned to his gut, but Thorin forced it down. He settled back on the couch and pulled out the book he was currently skimming: _The World Political Almanac, From 1945 to the Present_. It was dry reading, but informative, and contained a great big timeline chapter which detailed all the recent significant events in a history he had no part in.

But the silence, and that twisting feeling, were overpowering. When he couldn't stand it any longer, he broke the silence by repeating his words to her. This time, they sounded more like a mantra.

"I'll be fine."

* * *

 **Yay, I'm back! I know, I know, it's been a while. I even promised some of you that I would have something up last week. I apologize for the wait. Thank you for all your kind messages in the interim. My first semester was crazy, plus applying to uni and work and all this stuff has just overwhelmed me the past few months. To be honest, I was in a bit of a funk for a while, but I'm feeling better now and, with a nice little break after exams, have gotten back into the swing of this fic. Plus, I'm taking a creative writing course this semester, so hopefully that will help with this story.**

 **We're going to be doing some jumping around in time these next few chapters, so that the next one is actually about the moment that Gemma and Thorin first arrive back in her world, while this one was a few weeks later. Plus, the last chapter of** _ **Home is Behind**_ **will factor in, so you might want to reread that just in case you forgot. Think of this chapter as a prologue. I just didn't want to mess up the chapter numbers.**

 **Drop me a line and let me know what you think. I'm also looking for some prompts for later chapters. Is there anything you really want to see Thorin do or react to?**


	2. Don't Ask Questions

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hobbit or associated characters and works.**

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Chapter 2: Don't Ask Questions

" _Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."_

― _Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland_

Scott Parker had lived through a lot of shit. That was to be expected, after working for the Federal Bureau of Investigations for over thirty years. This week though... God, this week had been, without a doubt, the worst week of his life. In the span of days, two of his best agents, his friends, had been blown up, their funerals had been conducted, and he'd been not so subtlety prompted to retire. Scott was nearly sixty, but he was still in prime shape. Physically, at least. Psychologically... thinking back to the funeral of Chang and LaRoche only yesterday, he wondered if retirement really was the way to go.

This job took its toll, his division more than most. It was the reason that so many agents cycled through the Counter Terrorism Unit so quickly. So many came in with noble ideas of right and wrong and justice, only to find that they couldn't hack it, because they'd lacked the ability to see in grey. Gemma and Patrick were exceptions.

And now his longest serving, highest ranking agents were dead. More importantly, two of his best friends were dead. Scott had never been much of a family man, he was too married to the job, but he'd privately come to consider those two something like his children (and didn't that make him feel old). But you were never supposed to outlive your kids.

There'd been talks, before, about who would replace him when Scott finally retired. The majority thought it would be Patrick Chang, company man (though those who knew Patrick well would never have considered him such. A big softie, Patrick was, with an impulsive streak a mile high). Truly, the real majority thought Scott would never retire; as if he'd been born a fifty-something FBI agent and would die the same way. That, of course, was ridiculous. Scott planned to become a sixty-something FBI agent at least.

But really, when he retired, Scott Parker always knew who he would suggest as a replacement Unit Chief. Gemma LaRoche was no one's idea of a conventional agent; if Chang's impulsiveness was a mile high, Gemma's downright rebellious streak could reach the sun. She was a foul-mouthed, intuitive, trauma-hardened cop at heart, and sometimes Scott didn't believe she had a serious bone in her body. And then sometimes, he knew she did. It was fascinating to watch, really; the way she could switch it off and become the professional, world-class agent he knew she was. More than that, Scott would have suggested her promotion on experience alone; not only was Gemma _willing_ to shed blood, sweat, and tears for the greater good, she actually had done so, several times over. And ultimately, she'd died for the agency. Well, maybe not _for_ the FBI, Gemma was never in it out of some misguided loyalty to the Bureau. She suffered for the people, always for the innocent people. If she had lived, he would have offered her the Unit Chief job, but he'd never know if she would have taken it.

It was nighttime in Washington DC, and outside Scott Parker's window, only the moon was visible through the city smog. Scott was nursing a scotch, sitting in his old leather armchair, and reminiscing. Mourning. Both funeral's had taken place yesterday, and Scott had booked today off as well, needing the extra time to come to terms. He couldn't shake the juxtaposition of the two funerals. Patrick's had happened in the morning, and had been a crowded affair, as his entire extended family had migrated to DC in his honour. Gemma's, in sharp contrast, had occurred in the evening, the sun just beginning to set. It was painfully small, only attended by fellow agents and an elderly neighbour. He'd given the eulogy himself, though now he could only consider its utter inadequacy in conveying who Gemma was.

Finishing his scotch in a final, burning gulp, Scott contemplated the glass in his hand. For the briefest of seconds, he considered hurling it across the room at the opposite wall. It would shatter in crystalline shards, and he imagined he would feel some grim satisfaction. But then he would have to clean it up, and he'd probably cut himself on the glass, and he wasn't quite at the stage of grief where the pain would be welcome. Also, Scott Parker was a self-proclaimed neat freak, and it would probably damage his wall or wreck his carpet.

So he just rolled the tumbler absentmindedly between his palms and continued to wallow. He knew he ought to do something. Heaven knew he had mountains of reports to fill out, after their speedy take down of the main sect of the aforementioned terrorist troupe only two days earlier. They were amateur anarchists really, with no significant ties to any major organisation, thank God. It had only been their extreme paranoia that had kept them one step ahead of the authorities for as long as they had been. Of course, the utter insignificance of this group made the sting of his agents' loss even harsher. Chang and LaRoche had worked riskier, higher profile cases before and made it out alive, unscathed. Even when disaster struck, those two were fighters. Patrick had once been held at gun point in a shopping mall during a minor hostage crisis. And of course, there had been that scare with that neo-KGB sect when Gemma had been kidnapped and tortured; even two years later, it was difficult for Parker to think about. He'd become especially close to the female agent after that, and would admit that it was partly out of a misguided protective streak, despite the knowledge that Gemma was still a more than capable agent. Nonetheless, he'd felt a little more sure of her safety after having taught her the ins and outs of sharp shooting. Another misguided effort, really; realistically, sniper skills wouldn't come in handy in this field, and ultimately they hadn't provided any protection at all. Still, it had made him feel like he was looking out for her.

Parker returned his attention to the cool feeling of the glass rolling between his hands, and tried to think about nothing at all. He was unsuccessfully, the memory of the noise of their deaths returning to replay on a loop in his brain. The shouts over the comms, the brief roar, and then the silence as the ear pieces, and their respective agents, on the other end were disintegrated.

It was morbid and torturous to remember, but at least mourning was better than the alternative. Denial. There had been inconsistencies in their deaths, fairly major ones in fact. Where was the SUV? Where were the bodies? The events were quite unclear, but in the end, all the forensics agents had agreed that nearly all realistic scenarios ended in his agents' deaths, no matter what events had actually occurred. He could hold onto the hope that maybe, just once, the unrealistic had become reality, could obsess over the chance that somehow they had beat the odds, but Scott Parker was, quite frankly, too old for that shit. He knew by now that miracles didn't happen; the universe didn't work that way.

And yet, one should never presume to understand how the universe works, for it is in those moments that the universe will lob you a curve ball. For Scott Parker, it came as a blinding silver light in the middle of his living room, which dissolved to reveal one Gemma LaRoche, formerly deceased, now very much alive, holding the bleeding body of a man who appeared to have come straight out of one of those medieval fairs. Parker's glass slipped from his hand and shattered as it hit the floor.

Gemma looked around at the sound, and he saw her straighten in an automatic way that was reserved for the few figures of authority she respected enough to pay difference to. "Parker," she greeted him as if saying good morning at the office. "Did we come out in your living room? Well, that's rather convenient. I don't think I can carry him all the way to the hospital on my own. Could you grab his feet?"

Scott was vaguely aware that his mouth was opening and closing like a gold fish. "LaRoche? But... you're..." It wasn't often that he was speechless.

"Dead?" she finished, quirking an expressive eyebrow at him with slight annoyance. "Well, clearly I'm not. I'm right here. You can go ahead and pinch yourself if you think you're dreaming, though, I'd like to question the idea of my being in your dreams. Really, sir, I know I'm rather amazing, but you're my boss and twenty years my senior. It just wouldn't be appropriate. Now, could you please grab his feet? I don't want my fiancé to bleed out on your ghastly shag carpet."

"But... Gemma. What... how... what on earth is going on?!"

Gemma made an angry noise in the back of her throat, and glanced down at the man in her arms. "Sir... and I mean this in the most respectful way, but really, this man has just been run though by a foot long jagged... arm... sword... thing... after battling a dragon and an entire army of orcs, and he's got maybe twenty minutes to live. For fucks sake, don't ask questions, just grab his goddamn feet!"

Scott did as he was told.

They rushed out of the apartment, only stopping so he could snag his keys off the kitchen table, and loaded themselves into the elevator. Jazzy muzak played as they rode down to the parking garage in silence, and Parker was acutely aware of just how surreal this evening had suddenly become. He took this moment to subtly pinch himself, just in case, and found it to be quite real.

They piled the man into the back seat of the Bureau standard SUV that Parker had on loan, Gemma still pressing on his wound, and Parker vaulted into the driver's side. The George Washington University Hospital was ten minutes away. Scott turned on the sirens and they made it in five.

* * *

Two hours later, the pungent odour of shitty coffee from the hospital cafeteria violated Gemma's nostrils. She looked up from her seat in the waiting area to find Parker holding out a cup of the black sludge and wearing a trademarked frown. Gemma accepted the coffee, taking a huge gulp and cringing at the taste. She took a second gulp anyway. Parker was still standing above her, arms crossed and looking intimidating as all hell. There were very few people who could properly intimidate Gemma. Parker was one. Perhaps it was because she respected him so much, or perhaps it was _why_ she respected him so much.

"Look, sir, I don't know what to say. I wasn't prepared for any of this and..."

Parker cut her off by pulling her to her feet and wrapping her in his arms. Gemma nearly burst into tears. Again. Parker was the embodiment of stoic and professional. This intimacy was so out of character for him that it meant so much more than a simple hug. She had thought that there was nothing and no one left for her in this world, but she was wrong. Scott Parker was here for her, and that meant a lot.

"You're not going to believe me when I tell you what happened," she said into his shoulder.

Scott released her and straightened his suit. "LaRoche, you just came back to life in my living room." And that was that.

Gemma dragged her boss into an empty waiting room and sat him down. She paced back and forth as she told him the story. Scott said nothing, and maintained his world class poker face as he contemplated the tale for several minutes after. Gemma rubbed at the fresh stitches in her arm nervously as she waited for a reply. The doctors had carted her off to be fixed up an hour ago, and had decided to keep her for the next few days, worried about her mental state. Gemma had protested, but relented when the doctors had allowed her to sit with her boss rather than confining her to her room. Gemma had taken up her post in the ICU waiting room immediately.

"We'll have to forge his documents." Parker's reply snapped Gemma to attention.

"What?"

"Your Mr. Oakenshield. If he survives, he'll become someone who's never existed before. Even if he dies, we'll need documentation."

Gemma didn't know how to feel about his response. Angry or worried that he'd said "if" Thorin survived? Embarassed that he'd called Thorin hers? She decided perplexed was the best. Perplexed at his perfectly reasonable and logical response to a completely unreasonable and illogical response.

"I think it would be best to go with the amnesia approach, actually. That way he'll be considered a John Doe and eventually be granted legitimate documents. And I know a guy who can speed up the process. You're lucky, I know a lot of people and I've accumulated quite a few owed favours over the years."

"Sir... you're... well quite frankly , the fact that you're taking this so easily is freaking me out. I just told you I travelled to another world where I freed a kingdom from a dragon, fought in a battle, and fell in love with a dwarf king, and your first thought is about paperwork?!"

Gemma watched Parker's eyes flick briefly upwards. If he had been as dramatic as Gemma was, he probably would have gone for the full eye roll, but Parker was the opposite of dramatic. Instead, he adjusted his features into a look of mild reproach and said, "Yes, but we've established that I believe you, because appearing out of thin air in my living room is proof enough for me. So if we can move past that, we might actually get something accomplished."

Gemma stared at him for a minute more, and then replied curtly "Yes sir."

They spent the next hour drumming out possible cover stories. Ultimately it was decided that Thorin's appearance and Gemma's return from the dead should not be linked. Thorin would be passed off as a John Doe, whose case would be handled personally by Parker, allowing him to cover up any inconsistencies as he saw fit and validate Thorin's identity. Gemma's cover story would have to be more elaborate. The FBI had paid for her funeral, and would be expecting a pretty fantastic reason for their wasted money. After tossing around a few ideas, it was decided that they would play to Gemma's past and her current mental condition. She'd already lied to the doctors, so they'd work off of that. Following the explosion at the warehouse, they would say, Gemma had been attacked by two of the terrorists, but had escaped. Suffering a mental break and a bought of paranoia, though somewhat founded, she had come to believe that the terrorists were still after her, and had gone into hiding, with the help of Parker. She was only returning now that the cell had been captured. It seemed preposterous to Gemma, but Parker had been very convincing when he'd described the story to her, and they really had no other scenarios. He'd promised that he'd pull some strings and convince the higher-ups that, if anything, she deserved compensation for the trauma and their mismanagement of her original situation.

This raised three major concerns with Gemma. "So, I'm not going to be able to see Thorin, then?"

Parker shook his head. "Not for a little while. Perhaps we can sneak you in at night, but it would do no good for the rumour of your connection to spread. We're trying to sweep Thorin's case under the rug, and connecting it to your case would do only the opposite. In fact, you really shouldn't be here right now."

It made sense, but Gemma wasn't happy about it. The worry she felt for Thorin still buzzed through her every nerve. He wasn't even out of surgery yet, and though they'd been informed that his chances looked hopeful, she wouldn't cease worrying until he was awake and in her arms. Unfortunately, with their plan, that might take a while.

"And you're sure that you can pull this off? Lying to the Bureau? Blatantly disregarding protocol and manipulating federal law?" Parker frowned at her, and she backtracked. "Not that I _doubt_ your abilities, but I know those types of things are important to you and… you don't need to risk everything for me, Scott."

Parker's rough hands dwarfed her own as he grasped them tightly. "Of course I do. We're a team, LaRoche. That means more to me than the Bureau. I thought you were dead, but you're not. You're here, and I'm here for you." Gemma held back the little sob that formed in her throat. "And besides, I'm nearly ready to retire; I can afford a little corruption."

Gemma laughed, "Agent Parker, retiring? Oh, perish the thought."

They sat in silence for a minute, mulling over all the implications of their hatched plan. Finally, Gemma brought up her final point of concern. "So this means I'm going to have to do a lot of therapy, eh?"

Parker nodded solemnly, but she could see a slight twinkle in his normally hard eyes. "A shit load," he confirmed.

Gemma sank back into the uncomfortable waiting room chair and let out a dramatic huff. "Shit."

* * *

 **AN:**

 **Mostly exposition, but this chapter was pretty fun to write. And a lot of work, because I'm establishing the first of many new secondary OCs. Almost all of the characters in this story are OCs, and I didn't realize what a huge endeavour that would be. Scott Parker, in my mind, is the personality of Gibbs from** _ **NCIS**_ **in the body of Denzel Washington. Like, an older version of his character from** _ **The Siege**_ **. I'd love to hear what you guys think of him so far.**

 **Thank you so so much for sticking with me. Your reviews were lovely, and have put me in the mood to write even more. So, go ahead and leave some more review if you'd like even more chapters!**

 **Super important side note** **: I'm going to be changing my pen name soon, for personal reasons and to correspond to my Archive of Our Own account name. I'm not going to do so right away because I want to give you guys time to read this note, so you won't be confused when you get an update from a different name. My new name will be** Jens _Pen **. I also hope to get both** _ **Home is Behind**_ **and** _ **The World Ahead**_ **up on AO3 soon!**


	3. New World, New Man

**Disclaimer: I still don't own the Hobbit.**

 **AN: This picks up after the last chapter of** _ **Home is Behind**_ **but before the first chapter/ prologue of this story.**

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Chapter 3: New World, New Man

 _We live in a fantasy world, a world of illusion. The great task in life is to find reality._

— _Iris Murdoch_

Thorin couldn't sleep. He had, according to Gemma, been here for three days. Here, in her world. Alive.

Gemma had left his room an hour ago, after sobbing by his bedside for an age. If he had had the energy, he would have stopped her from crying. She thought she had done some horrible thing, taking him out of his world. But she had _saved his life_. He tried to tell her this, but he felt strangely numb, and had difficulty pushing the words past his lips. Gemma had explained it came from the drugs they were pumping into him through the tube in his arm. Thorin felt disturbed by the prospect, but ultimately decided it was the lesser of two evils when the other option was unbearable pain. The numbness wasn't entirely unpleasant.

Gemma had gone on to describe the situation in its entirety, detailing their plan and cover story. Thorin tried to process it all with his sluggish brain, but found himself hung up on the prospect that he would not see her until he was released from this strange hospital. Gemma assured him that she would visit him often at night, when she was able to sneak out of her own room on the fourth floor psychiatric wing. She'd ghosted a kiss over his lips before she left, pausing in the doorway to say, "I love you," and then slipping off with the silence of a shadow.

He thought of her words now, as he lay awake in the dark hospital bed. It was the way she said it, with such hope and sorrow and relief, that made his breath catch. Mahal, did he love her, his guardian angel, his saviour.

The thought of her calmed his otherwise unquiet, delirious mind. The sounds of the hospital made him jittery. The beeping of the machines, the sound of the night shift staff outside his door, the nearly inaudible buzzing that seemed to permeate the air in this stark, artificial room. Gemma had told him she was sorry for bringing him here, even though it saved his life. He had tried to tell her that he didn't care, that he was so amazed at what she had done. And he was. It didn't make him any less terrified of this new world.

He must have drifted off to sleep at some point because it was suddenly morning and he was opening his eyes to the sight of a woman, though not the one he had hoped for. A petite woman with caramel skin covered by baggy turquoise clothes and some sort of black scarf around her head was perusing some papers at the side of his bed, but stopped when she noticed his eyes flutter open. A wide, friendly smile split across her face as she set the clipboard down and pressed a few buttons on the side of his bed. Thorin startled when the cot began to move, slowly tilting him into a half-sitting position. He immediately wished he hadn't, as the twitch had caused pain to shoot through his chest. The woman caught his wince and hurriedly said, "Oh sorry, sorry, I know the beds can be a little unexpected, and you're just about due for another dose of morphine." She fiddled with the bag attached to the tube connected to his arm, and soon a numbness washed over Thorin like a thick fog.

"My name is Malika, I'm going to be your nurse, Mister…" Thorin simply stared at her, and the wide smile on her face wilted slightly.

"I'm sorry, you're file doesn't have your name, we seem to be unable to locate your medical records and you were not conscious or carrying any I.D. when you came to the E.R." Thorin didn't recognize either of those acronyms, but he understood the gist of what she was saying. Recalling Gemma's instructions, he knew it was time for him to play the part.

Malika was frowning slightly now, and Thorin almost felt bad about imposing the trouble on her. He was still wary, but this woman was unimposing and seemed kind. Not a threat of any sort.

"Sir, can you tell me your name?"

"I…" Thorin croaked, and then swallowed in an attempt to regain his voice. "I can't remember."

The nurse frowned and snatched the medical charts up again. "Yes, head trauma, and a lacerated stab wound from a serrated weapon. Minor cuts and bruised…," she mumbled to herself. "Sir, can you remember how you were hurt? What happened?"

Thorin shook his head no, and then winced at the twinge of pain which penetrated the drug-induced numbness. Malika frowned again and helped adjust his pillow until his head was cradled in a more comfortable position.

"How about where you are from? Or any family?"

Thorin forced his eyes wide, hoping that he appeared a better actor than he felt. This was Gemma's territory, not his. He almost laughed at the thought: those words were true in more than one sense. "I… cannot remember a thing. What has happened to me?"

Apparently his act had worked, because the nurse's expression turned sympathetic and she said, "I'm going to page Doctor Arnaz. He'll talk to you about this. Don't worry. Is there anything else you need?"

Thorin told her no, and the nurse left to go find the doctor. She returned moments later with a bald, tan man with neatly groomed facial hair and long white coat over his broad shoulders. Thorin felt a defensive instinct kick in at the sight of the tall man, very aware of the fact that he was restricted to the bed and his only exit was blocked. He had to fight to supress this response as the doctor gently examined his bandaged wounds, and remind himself that things were very different in this world. It was unlikely that either of these strangers posed him any threat, especially if Gemma had left him in their care. Thorin would have to ignore his innate lack of trust.

Dr. Arnaz described the surgery Thorin had undergone and assured him that his recovery looked safe and optimistic. The head trauma was a different story. "The CT scans showed concussion, which may have affected your memories, but it is difficult to determine these things. I'm not going to beat around the bush here, you memories might return very soon or they may never return, I cannot say. I'll send these to a neuro specialist who may be able to provide better insight, and we can set you up with a therapist, get you started on some memory recovery techniques which may help. But if it's as bad as you have told nurse Malika, complete long-term loss, the chances of recovery are not high. Not slim, but not great either." The doctor flipped through his notes, forehead creased with several frown lines. "It's strange; your head trauma does not appear to be great enough to have caused this…" Thorin tensed, worried that Gemma's quick cover story was about to fall apart, "… but there are some brain anomalies in the scans that I have not seen before. Of course, I'm a surgeon, not a neurologist, so perhaps we will have a more definitive answer soon."

Thorin held in his sigh of relief. He was suddenly quite sure that those "anomalies" were due to the fact that he was actually a dwarf, not a Man, and wondered if the portal magic had anything to do with these anomalies.

"Doctor, the police are here to speak with John Doe," Malika said from the doorway, motioning to the two people outside the door who wore heavy blue uniforms and stern expressions.

The Doctor turned to Thorin, who realized that _he_ was now being referred to as John Doe, with a composed smile. "Yes, you understand that, under the unusual circumstances of your injury, you will have to speak with the authorities, sir? It is nothing to worry about." Thorin schooled his features, worried that he had been projecting his anxiety, and nodded. He did not understand, truly, but he thankfully knew what police were, due to Gemma's background.

The doctor and the nurse left, and the two officers stepped inside. Thorin found himself wishing that they had stayed, particularly the woman, Malika. She was the only who gave him a small sense of comfort in this matter. These officers, both middle aged and male, did not. Thorin found himself wishing Gemma was here. He understood why she could not be, but right now he felt entirely helpless and needed her. For Mahal's sake, he had just lost his nephews and his entire world, how was he expected to cope with this sudden onslaught of alien things?

The policemen asked him questions, barely looking at him as they began to write in their notepads. Thorin tried to maintain his lies, but he was struggling, and felt certain that they saw through him. Any involvement with gangs? He wasn't entirely sure that he knew what those were, in this context. He informed them that he didn't think so, but couldn't remember. Any idea who could have done this, or why? No, he told them again, because he bloody well couldn't remember. They didn't appear to appreciate his tone, but Thorin felt certain that, if he truly was in the situation of memory loss, he would be a lot more angry and frustrated with the officers than he currently was portraying.

The police were interrupted by the door to his room being opened once more. Malika appeared, ushering in a man. He was tall; enough that the top of his head, brushed with closely cropped graying hair, almost grazed the top of the doorway. His skin was dark, the colour of coffee, and marked with fine wrinkles. Despite the signs of aging, the sharp black suit he wore did not hide his well-defined muscles, and he would undoubtable be considered handsome. The expression on his face could only be described as stoic, made for an intimidating man.

The two policemen, who were rather pudgy and several inches smaller, clearly got the same impression. One stepped forward as if to demand who the man was, but was met with a badge held close to his face. Thorin recognized it at the same type of badge Gemma had shown him when they'd first met. This man was from the F.B.I. "I'll be taking over this case," the man informed the police.

"On what grounds? How is this federal jurisdiction?" the gutsier of the two policemen asked.

"On classified grounds," the agent replied simply, and gave them such a withering look that the two officers appeared to physically shrink. Thorin had once thought Gemma had mastered the art of terrifying glares, but compared to this man she was a mere novice. The officers acquiesced, leaving the hospital room with complaints that were mumbled so quietly that they were unintelligible.

"Scott Parker," the man introduced himself, moving to stand beside Thorin's bed. "I'm agent LaRoche's boss. She's briefed me on your… situation. You can speak freely. Am I correct in assuming agent LaRoche has briefed you on proceedings?"

Thorin was briefly reminded of his grandfather. The man had the same directness and sense of propriety. "Yes," Thorin answered.

"How is it that you can speak English, if you are from where Gemma says you're from?"

"Another world?" Thorin said conspiratorially, "It's known as the Common Tongue in Middle Earth. Gemma had a theory, something about the portal's magic. That perhaps it had altered the languages so that we may understand each other."

"Right. Middle Earth, portal magic…"

"Yes, I know it must seem strange."

"No, I've been over this with Gemma. But I believe that the portal magic must have done something to prevent your surgeon from discovering you are, in fact, a… dwarf."

Thorin stared at the man, not understanding.

"Well, there must be some sort of physically differences between dwarves and humans," agent Parker elaborated.

"Other than the height?" Thorin questioned, suddenly feeling quite tired and strange. He did not like the implications of this man's words.

"The height, yes. But these medical forms have your height recorded as," Parker checked the papers in question, the same ones Malika had been studying earlier, "five foot five. Not average height, but not short enough to seem… dwarved. I believe Gemma said you were at her chin level. That would be about… five feet exactly, I'd say. It seems that, since coming through the portal, you've grown."

Thorin took that in for a minute. As much as he wanted to deny it, it almost made sense. "Dwarves tend to have thicker skin, and denser bones," he told the agent slowly. "But the surgeon made no mention of this. Would he not have noticed this when he was tending to my injuries?"

"He would have," agreed Parker. "It is likely that your physiology has changed to resemble a human. Somehow. But I am no expert in… portal magic, as you and Gemma call it." The man looked uncomfortable with the words and yet sounded entirely practical.

Thorin swallowed thickly. So, what, he was human now? Had his species been stripped away with everything else he'd lost? "The surgeon mentioned, er, brain anomalies, I believe he said. I do believe that this must have something to do with my being a dwarf. Surely I have not entirely changed my identity."

"It's possible," Parker agreed, "that your mind still functions as a dwarf, but your body is human."

Both men stopped talking, and uncomfortable silence descended with the weight of their hypotheses.

"This all seems… ridiculous," Thorin confided in a scratchy voice, finally breaking the tension.

For the first time, the imposing demeanour of the agent beside him broke as a rueful smile spread across his face and the laugh lines at the corner of his eyes appeared. "Definitely. I wouldn't believe it if you and Gemma had not appeared out of thin air in my living room. Scared the living daylights out of me," he chuckled. Thorin had to smile too, acutely aware of the bizarre circumstances. The same thing had happened when he'd first met Gemma.

"I must discuss what we're going to do next with you. It's going to be a long process, but I'll do my best to ensure you and Gemma can get through this, and that you will be able to survive in this world. But I'm going to have to ask a lot of you. I am aware that you have suffered unimaginable loss, and that you will find it difficult to cope with, but you have to pull through," Parker told Thorin seriously.

Thorin nodded. "We dwarves are made of strong stuff. I will do what needs to be done. I will suffer, but I do not care for my own suffering so long as I can assist Gemma in regaining her life. I have lost mine, but she must not lose hers. And if I can join her in that life, just as she was going to join me in mine before the battle, I will do whatever I must."

Something on the television in the corner of the room caught Thorin's eye, and Parker, noticing, turned his head too. The man found a sort of box on the table beside Thorin, and pressed a button, turning on the sound. A woman was on screen, and beside her was a picture of Gemma's face. "In a turn of events," the reporter said, "one of the agents previously thought to be killed in the Pennsylvanian explosion last week has been recovered alive. The Federal Bureau of Investigations released a statement this morning, and while the true nature of these unfolding events is being kept under wraps, they have confirmed that Special Agent Gemma LaRoche of the Counter-Terrorism Unit is alive, while her partner, Special Agent Patrick Chang, has been confirmed dead. The F.B.I has stated that it is an unusual incident and is still under investigation, but that it has ultimately led to an outcome better than they previously believed, with the survival of Agent LaRoche. They ask that the media and public respect what is a very delicate situation, and for this reason will not be releasing further details."

"I owe that woman a lot," Parker told Thorin as they watched the news, a feeling of foreboding descending once more. "She is family, and I have failed her twice. I will not fail her again. You seem like an honourable man, all things aside, and if you have been as good as Gemma said you were to her, then I owe you much as well. This will all be over soon, and you and Gemma can move on with your life together."

Thorin appreciated his words, but he felt no less trepidation. Establishing the fact that he and Gemma existed in this world was one thing, but after that, they had to move on with life. To Thorin, the prospect of a future seemed unreachable, when only days ago he had envisioned an entirely different future with Gemma, in and entirely different world.

* * *

 **AN:**

" **I'm going to try to update on a week" she said.**

 **Two weeks later…**

 **Seriously, I'm so sorry guys, this is ridiculous. But here's another chapter finally, with some big implications. Which won't actually come back for a few chapters.**

 **Also, if you missed the note last chapter, I'm going to be changing my pen name to Jens_Pen soon.**

 **Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts. I'll see you guys next week… probably.**


	4. Top-notch Shouting and Sandwich Sexting

**Disclaimer: I still don't own the Hobbit.**

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Chapter 4: Top-notch Shouting and Sandwich Sexting

" _We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love."_

— _Dr. Seuss_

Things were going surprisingly well, Gemma thought, considering what they were trying to do: bring a person back from the dead, make another person actually exist. To be honest, Parker did all the work. Even Thorin did more than her, because he had to constantly fake amnesia _and_ pretend that he understood a whole bunch of stuff that he definitely did not. For her part, Gemma just had to act emotionally and mentally damaged. Not that hard: she'd had lots of practice, and it really wasn't an act. So long as she didn't get frustrated and flip her shit with the psychiatrists, she was in the clear.

Gemma woke that morning to find Parker pacing back and forth across her hospital room, talking into his phone. Well, maybe talking wasn't the word for it. Shouting was a better fit. "Yes, I understand that it's a difficult situation. That's exactly why I _don't_ think you should come down her and talk to her... Like what? What do you think she's done?! This is a woman who has devoted her entire being to the Bureau and got the short end of the stick more times than one person ever deserves because of it. She's got a fantastic track record, better than most, and she's more than proven herself…. No, I don't think _you_ understand the implications! You should be worried about yourselves, if anything. It was internal affairs and the psych division who wrongly cleared her for active duty…. Of course she would! She'd a field agent; all they want to do is get the hell off the bench whenever they're on it! And I know for a fact that she thought she was well enough. The psych department assured her that she was…. Well, they're the doctors, it's their goddamn job, not hers…. It's not _my_ job either! ...Yeah, worry about a full investigation into your departments. This is gross negligence on your parts…. No, I don't think she's going to make it a legal dispute; she's too _loyal_ to the Bureau for that, as I've mentioned, but don't push your luck…. Well, no, she doesn't trust you, or anybody else for that matter, which is why I'm going to stay here and you're not going to come near her… Absolutely…. Frank, you've known me for how many years? If you can't trust the _official documents_ that prove her trustworthiness, trust my reference." Parker finally stopped pacing and shouting. It appeared that he and whoever was on the other end of the call had come to an agreement.

"Of course…. Yes…. Thank you, sir…. Oh, yes, that's a separate matter. Well, I'm the one who found him, it just happened to be on the way to see Gemma after I got her call." He must be talking about Thorin now, Gemma supposed. "No, the police are handling the investigation, that's just street violence likely, but he doesn't remember a thing, he can't help them anyway…. No, there's no record of any gang affiliation, there's no record of anything really, but he seems quite gentle… Well, I know that… Foreign, British maybe, but he's definitely been in the country awhile, not coming up on any recent border or immigration databases…. Yes, I think so…. No, I'm just going to supervise his new documents being created. Has to come through the Bureau anyway, and the coppers always fuck it up, thought I'd save them the hassle…. Something to do, really, all she's doing right now is sleeping and talking to the shrinks…. I've booked this time off. She needs somebody after all the pain the Bureau has caused her… Yes, alright. Goodbye."

"That was some top-notch shouting, boss."

Parker didn't startle at her voice, but turned to her as if he knew she'd been awake the whole time. "Of course. I've had years of practice. Your doctor should be here soon."

Gemma huffed. "Which one?"

"The one with the nose. Gallagher, I think."

"Right," Gemma said, pressing the button which raised the bed. Her left arm was heavily bandaged and the effects of the sleeping pills she'd been prescribed were still wearing off. "So when can I get out of here and go back to work?"

Parker gave her a scathing look, and Gemma held up her hands in surrender. "Kidding, I'm only kidding!"

"Actually," Parker said, "Once you're release from the hospital, you'll probably need to come in within the week. Not for any actual work, but to set you up with the Psych department. They're pretty anxious to cover their asses on this."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Gemma replied, poking a straw through the tinfoil lid of the apple juice brought with her hospital breakfast and taking a big slurp, "especially now that you've put the fear of God into their boss." She bit into the breakfast sandwich from the tray, wrinkling her nose at the rubbery taste of the eggs. "Not that I feel too bad for them, because they did kind of screw up when they cleared me for duty."

"That looks disgusting," was all Parker said, motioning to her breakfast sandwich.

"Yup," Gemma replied. "You know what would be amazing? A bagel. Oh and some proper coffee. I think there's a place across the street actually."

Parker rolled his eyes. "Are you trying to get me to buy you breakfast?"

"No, no, of course not. But if you're offering…"

Parker sighed, and grabbed his coat. "Only because I'm happy you're not dead."

"Oh, pick something up for Thorin too. I don't want him to think that all Earth food tastes like rubber!"

Scott Parker entered Thorin's room just as nurse Malika was leaving after dropping off his breakfast.

"Don't eat that. I have it on good authority that the eggs taste like rubber," the agent told him, and set a paper-wrapped parcel down on his tray. Thorin unwrapped it to find some much more appetizing food.

"It's a bagel with cream cheese," Parker informed him. "I wasn't sure what you'd like, so I went with something basic."

"Many thanks," Thorin said, before tentatively taking a bite. He chewed it thoughtfully before deciding that it was quite good.

"Gemma also told me to give you this," Parker said, holding out a folded piece of paper. It seemed to be a ripped piece of a sandwich wrapper like the one that had covered his bagel. He unfolded it to find a hastily scrawled message inside.

 _Good morning, mon cheri. So sorry I have not been able to sneak out to see you again. I want to be by your side, but you know we have to get through this so that we won't rouse suspicion. I miss you. I hope your doctors and nurses are better than mine, I'm about ready to punch the next one who asks me how I'm feeling. Parker's getting impatient, so that's all I'm going to write. Love Gemma._

Thorin couldn't help but smile, and quickly asked for something to write with. He jotted out a quick note and asked Parker to return it.

 _Good morning to you, amralime. I miss you immensely. My nurse and doctor both seem amiable, but I find it difficult to understand many of the things they are referring to. I suppose it is the same as when I speak to you, but without your lovely voice, I find I do not enjoy this nonsensical talk as much. It frustrates me. Your boss has been very understanding, and often provides explanation when I am feeling foolish enough to request his clarification. No doubt this will be an ongoing struggle for me in this world. I hope you can muster the patience to see things through with me. –Thorin._

A few hours later, Parker returned with another note, this time written on note paper.

 _Oh don't be stupid, of course I'm keeping you around. We'll get through this like always. I worry about you. Your whole life has been ripped away, and I know you said not to blame myself, but I do. It was the only way to save you, but did you want to be saved? I feel that as a partner, I am failing you because I'm not with you. When I am alone, although it hasn't been often over the past few days, I feel very sad. I miss everyone. But they were more your family than they were mine, and so your grief must be even worse. I'm going to sneak out to your room as soon as I get a chance._

She didn't bother to sign her name this time, just drew a little heart. Thorin smiled somewhat sadly, and scrawled a note in return. Parker rolled his eyes, but took it nonetheless.

Gemma didn't get the note until that night. She had been moved to various different examining rooms, and lectured by three different doctors before finally leaving with three different prescriptions, an order of mandatory therapy in the morning, and the knowledge that she would be released from the hospital in two days' time, barring complication with the meds.

She found the note tucked under the glass of water on her night stand. Parker must have left it there.

 _Gemma, do not worry so. Yes, I am grieving, for my nephews especially, and yes, I am frightened and confused in this place (though I will, of course, deny it, should you tell anyone), but I am so thankful that you saved me. You have never and will never fail me, I know this for certain. I will get on, it's what I have been doing all my life. And you must know that the Company always considered you a great part of the family, not matter how long you knew them._

 _I am, however, rather worried about this "partner" business. Do you really see me as a "partner"? I rather hoped you would consider yourself my queen, or at least my mistress, although I imagine those words will have you up in arms. What did you say in your last note? "We'll get through this like always"? "Like always" seems to involve a lot of fighting between us, so I rather hoped we could skip that part. I really do not know why you ever kept me around, with all the arguing we did._

 _And yet, I am so glad you did, my love, for I can no longer exist without the thought of you. I find myself growing numb without you by my side, though that may just be the morphine they are pumping into my veins._

– _Thorin._

By the end of the letter Gemma was grinning from ear to ear. She crafted her reply to him before drifting off to sleep, entirely aware that they were both acting like love-struck teenagers rather than the badass agent and warrior king that they were. She really couldn't find it in her to care.

 _I knew it!_ exclaimed the note that Parker dropped off for Thorin in the morning. The man seemed resigned to his fate of cupid's messenger, but he did not seem happy about it.

 _I knew that deep down under that stoicism and grumpiness, you're a total sucker. That note had to be the sappiest thing ever, you great big romantic oaf. And mistress! You cheeky bastard! I really don't know why I keep you around, that's a good question._

 _I guess it's for the sex._

 _I entirely sure that you're blushing right now while you read this, and the thought of it is very amusing. You should know that every time you write something in that old romantic way of yours, it gets me all hot and bothered._

 _If you don't know what that means, you should ask Parker. I only wish I could see his face when you do._

 _-Gemma_

Thorin was, in fact blushing by the time he finished the letter. And she called _him_ the cheeky one? He scribbled his note on the back of the one she had sent, fully aware that he would get… hot and bothered, as she so delicately put it, if he kept it around.

 _You really are so ladylike, dearest. Poised, elegant, polite._

 _I fear your sarcasm is rubbing off on me in the worst way._

 _And no, I was not entirely certain what "hot and bothered" meant, but I most definitely did NOT ask agent Parker, who, I might remind you, is your boss._

 _Missing your charming personality, Thorin._

Parker dropped off Gemma's final note with a gruff, "No more notes." Thorin only had to read Gemma's words to find out why.

 _Parker's refusing to be our messenger anymore. Apparently he caught a glimpse of my last note, since SOMEONE decide to write on the back of it instead of using a new piece of paper, and is now mortified at the prospect of being a go between for what he thinks has been constant sexting. I don't think I've ever seen him so frazzled. It didn't help that I informed him that it wasn't really sexting, since we're not texting, but erotic letter writing. That probably went entirely over your head, but it suffices to say I'm going to have to buy him a bottle of wine as an apology gift. And Parker has expensive taste._

 _I'm going to sneak down to see you tonight._

 _-Gemma._

Thorin read her note over three times, laughing to himself. It helped keep the sadness that usually descended upon him every afternoon at bay. By dinner time, he could barely eat, anticipating her arrival.

Malika wished him good night before she went off shift, and Thorin was left to fall asleep. Seconds later, his door opened once more and Gemma ghosted into his room like a mirage. She clambered onto the bed beside him and gingerly wrapped her arms around him, wary of his bandages. He buried his face in her neck and breathed in deeply. The comfort of her words was nothing compared to that of her presence.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **Guys, what's happened to me? I used to think of myself as a deep, angsty writer, and then I come out with this cavity-inducing fluff! I'm slightly disgusted with myself. Seriously, this reads like a B-list romcom.**

 **That being said, it's probably my favourite chapter so far.**

 **Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews! A few of you have made some great suggestions that I hope to incorporate later on. I hope you continue to enjoy this little story.**


	5. Into the Blue Again

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit!**

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Chapter 5: Into the Blue Again

 _Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down._

— _Once in a Life Time by Talking Heads_

"I want to break free…" Gemma hummed under her breath as she packed up the few things in her hospital room. "God knows, God knows I want to break free…"

"You don't think that's a little dramatic?" Parker was standing in the doorway, and Gemma grinned when she saw he was holding her release papers.

"You try being confined to a hospital room for a week after enjoying the freedom of the open wilderness for six months." Gemma signed the papers and practically skipped out of the room, her boss following behind her in a much more dignified fashion.

"I think I'll skip the wilderness, thanks. Hospitals have beds at least, and I'm too old for sleeping on the ground anymore."

Gemma handed in her papers and signed out. She waited until the elevator doors shut behind them before saying, "Oh, you can't pull the old-age card anymore. My boyfriend's about a hundred and sixty year's old, I think, so he's got you beat."

Gemma expected Parker to comment on Thorin's age, but all he said was, "Boyfriend?"

"Right," Gemma blushed, "That sounds a bit weird, huh? Don't tell him I called him my boyfriend. It'll make me sound like a pubescent school girl."

Parker hummed noncommittally, but Gemma swore she caught a glimpse of a smile. Ever since getting back to her world, Parker had seemed warmer to her. He was acting less like a boss, and more like a friend, and it was quite obvious that he was making an effort to be open and gentle with her. It was both unnerving and heartwarming. Who would have guessed that coming back from the dead would bring people closer?

Parker punched the button for the parking garage, and, when Gemma made to protest, he cut her off. "Absolutely not."

"But…"

"You can't go see him. That's not how this works. We've got a plan for a reason, LaRoche, so if you could keep your libido in check for another day or two, we can get you all through this without raising any suspicions which might end with either of you being carted off to the mental asylum or Area 51."

"Yes sir," Gemma sulked, feeling like a thoroughly chastised child.

The elevator dinged as the doors opened on the parking level, and soon both agents were bundled into a hulking black SUV, headed for Gemma's apartment.

Their amicable silence was broken only when Gemma asked, "Do you really think they'd ship us off to Area 51? Is that actually what they do there?"

Parker only raised an eyebrow at her and returned his eyes to the road.

They pulled up to Gemma's building, and Parker let her out. "I'm headed back to the hospital to check on Thorin. Call if you need anything. With any luck we'll have him here tomorrow. And remember, you have an appointment with the Bureau therapist a week from now when you come back in. In the meantime, you've got to keep taking your pills or they won't even let me reinstate you for desk duty."

"Alright, Dad," Gemma rolled her eyes. Parker's lips twitched, but he remained impassive as he pulled away.

Gemma rode the elevator to the sixth floor, praying that she didn't run into any neighbours. It was only when she came to her door and, on autopilot, reached into her pocket for her keys, that she realized she did not, in fact, have any keys. She was locked out of her apartment.

"God," Gemma mumbled, banging her head on the door as if that would convince it to open. "That's just fucking typical."

Which was how she ended up climbing the fire escape and jimmying open her stuck window, feeling the most ironic sense of déjà vu.

Gemma clambered through the window and to her feet, huffing in annoyance. The apartment was the same as she had left it. Not that it should be different; it had only been maybe ten days, Earth time, since she had made her abrupt trip here. But so much had changed since then, just as so much had changed since she'd left the first time. The apartment was the same, but she was a very different woman.

It wasn't that Gemma was ever a loner. She was usually quite the extrovert, really. But she had never been used to cohabitation, preferring independent living arrangements. Ever since her father's death, she'd pretty much been on her own, and the handful of boyfriends she'd had never really made it past the first few dates, let alone to living together.

Why, then, did she feel so lonely in this empty apartment?

One more day, she told herself. One more day without contact and then Thorin would be here too and everything would be alright. She'd still have a lot of work and running around to do (coming back from the dead wasn't easy), but they could breathe easier once they were in their own private space, without the need for quick lies and caution.

"Right," Gemma said, flopping onto the couch. "One day. I can get through one day."

* * *

Two hours later, Gemma was still lying on the couch, starring up at her phone as if it held the key to relieving her boredom. Her finger hovered over the dial button, on push away from calling Parker and Thorin. Instead she threw the phone down on the coffee table again, aware that Parker probably wasn't at the hospital anymore anyway. Thorin would be there all alone now, and there was nothing she could do except wait until tomorrow. Gemma hated this.

She felt… antsy. If her patience wasn't thin enough before, it seemed that after six months of travelling on the road under the constant threat of attack, always moving, always watching over her shoulder, Gemma was no longer capable of sitting still.

The television was on, playing an episode of _Homeland_. Gemma quickly changed the channel. She hated cop shows of any kind. Flicking through the channels, she found nothing but documentaries and reruns. She eventually settled on an episode of _Master Chef_ , but turned the TV off ten minutes later to go search for food.

The milk and yoghurt in the fridge had gone bad, but everything else had yet to expire. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, Gemma stared into the fridge in search of food, but couldn't come up with anything she wanted to eat. She had a sudden craving for Bombur's stew, and felt a twitch of sorrow at the innocent thought. Gemma grabbed an apple out instead.

Passing the liquor rack on her way out of the kitchen, she picked up a bottle of red wine, contemplated it for a moment, and then brought it over to the counter in search of a glass. She stared at the cupboard for a moment too, and the decided to forgo the glass entirely. She popped the cork and took a swig right from the bottle. Not as good as elvish wine, but it would do.

Gemma turned off the TV and turned on the stereo, flicking through the albums on her phone until she found a band which suited her fancy. The first beats of _Talking Heads'_ "Once in a Lifetime" started up as she took a seat back on the couch. Gemma took another swig from the bottle and wondered whether she should just cut her losses and take a sleeping pill right now so she wouldn't have to sit through this insufferable nothing. Her eyes found the clock: it was only 4 pm. Better not, she thought to herself, so she just sat on the couch and looked out the window without really seeing.

Gemma found herself wondering if Thorin would like her apartment. It wasn't anything like what he was used to, his home having been large and luxuriously decorated, not to mention built within a mountain. Gemma's apartment was modern and minimalistic, with dark hardwood furniture and pale earthy tones. Gemma, at least, had had some frame of reference. Erebor and many other buildings in Middle Earth had a medieval quality to them, something Gemma could compare to images from history or fantasy movies. Thorin had never been exposed to anything remotely similar to modern Earth styles.

Gemma supposed that was true about a lot more than room décor. It applied to just about everything, really. Which was why Thorin would have a much harder time in this world than she ever did in his. Not for the first time, Gemma found herself wishing that things had not turned out the way they had. She wished she could have stayed with Thorin in Middle Earth; get rid of the moonstone and start a life in Erebor with him and the rest of the Company just as she had envisioned in those last few days. Before the battle.

Middle Earth had changed Gemma, perhaps for better and for worse. She found it difficult to imagine the same future she had once been headed for: work, marriage, tax-paying, retirement. She just couldn't seem to fit herself into that life. If Gemma was being honest with herself, she wasn't quite sure she ever wanted that life.

 _Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down_ , crooned the song in the background. The goddamn irony, Gemma thought.

Unable to sit anymore, Gemma changed into leggings, grabbed her wind jacket and running shoes, and headed out the door, making sure to remember her keys this time. A good long jog and some fresh air, that's what she needed, she told herself. She'd clear her head of this melancholy so that when tomorrow came, she could go about starting her new life with Thorin, here. It didn't matter that she didn't want it like this; life never did care what she wanted.

 _Same as it ever was_ , the song ended as she locked the door.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **I'm so sorry guys! It's been over a month without updates. Things have been so busy lately. I'm in a creative writing class and it's been taking up all my creative juice. The good news is I'm pumping out some original short stories that I am really proud of (and would love to share with you all if you're interested). The bad news is I've neglected this story. But this weekend I've stockpiled a bunch of ideas and written a few more chapters, so hopefully I can get things back to a semi-regular schedule soon.**

 **This chapter's pretty lame, but I think Gemma and Parker have some pretty fun banter going on. The first song Gemma is singing is** _ **I Want to Break Free**_ **by Queen.**

 **Let me know what you guys think, and have a fantastic week!**


	6. Foreigner in a Foreign Land

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hobbit.**

* * *

Chapter 6: Foreigner in a Foreign Land

Thorin was met with a mouthful of wild and fluffy hair when he entered the vehicle, as Gemma wrapped her arms around his neck. She was very careful not to press against his chest, and Thorin was grateful. She pulls away and brushed her hair out of his face sheepishly, before drawing him in for a kiss.

From the driver's seat up front, Parker cleared his throat, and the two released each other. Parker passed a folder back to Gemma, who opened it up and flipped through several papers. She pulled a few out to show Thorin. Social insurance number, permanent resident and citizenship cards, passport. Thorin didn't know what they meant, but they had his name on them. His new name: Thorin Oakley. Gemma had giggled at it, said it made him sound like a hipster (whatever that was), and mentioned something about it fitting with his beard. Thorin rubbed his chin self-consciously. Oakenshield apparently wasn't a common name here, and he couldn't use Durin because "rhyming names will make you seem like a comic book character", apparently. So Oakley it was, a close enough fit to his old title.

Gemma helped Thorin buckle in, and then Parker pulled the SUV out of the parking garage. Thorin wasn't sure if he liked driving. It felt strange, sitting still and moving at the same time. As they merged onto the city streets jammed with traffic, he couldn't help but stare out the window. He felt a bit like his nephews, always excited and captivated by new things, and couldn't help the twang of sadness as he thought about how they would have loved this place. Buildings rose around him which appeared to touch the clouds, and a sea of vehicles filled the street, while swarms of people bustled along the paths on each side. As they made their way through the city, Thorin saw windows filled with strange clothes and other items; he assumed these places were shops. Flashing lights and bright signs lit up the streets. As they went along, these tightly packed shiny and angular buildings gave way to stately looking places. In the distance, Thorin saw a tall white obelisk. This place was more alien than Thorin had ever imagined from Gemma's stories, and he felt equal parts awed and intimidated. Reluctant to show either emotion, he schooled his features and adopted a familiar regal air of indifference.

Gemma, for her part, seemed perfectly unaware of how strange this place was to him. She simply appeared mildly annoyed at the traffic jam which had caused their car to slow to a creep, tapping her foot in her ever-present impatience. Her left hand was still looped in his right, and her thumb was unconsciously rubbing across his knuckles. Up front, Parker was fiddling with some buttons, and Thorin nearly jumped out of his skin when a sudden noise came from nowhere. Was that supposed to be… music? Gemma had clearly felt him twitch, because she tore her eyes away from the window and leaned up to Parker. "Maybe no radio for now, boss," she said, tilting her head back towards Thorin. Parker caught on, and turned the sound off.

"There's nothing good ever on the radio anyway," Parker agreed. "Make sure you give this one a proper education in good music. I wouldn't want him to judge our music based on the works of those teenybopper popstars or that word vomit shit they call rap music nowadays."

"Right, well, we can't all be classical enthusiasts, Parker. Some of us have diverse taste," Gemma barbed. "Although I'll admit that you're mostly right about the six songs they cycle through on the radio." Thorin couldn't follow their conversation, so he turned his eyes back to the window.

Soon, the buildings grew smaller and more humble. Thin, squished together houses and wide red brick buildings dominated the street they turned down. Parker pulled the car to a stop in front of one of these buildings, which had a faded facade with a slowly crumbling cornice, but a shiny new front door and a plethora of blossoming window-box gardens.

Gemma helped him out of the car and carried the small bag Parker passed out through the window. The man sped off after making Gemma promise to call him if they needed anything, to which she just rolled her eyes and brushed him off. Gemma led Thorin through the door and into a pleasant, and thankfully empty, entrance area. There were two sets of gleaming silver door on the opposite wall, and when Gemma pressed a button, the doors opened all by themselves to reveal a very tiny room. Ah, another one of these elevators, then. There was one at the hospital, but Thorin hadn't been paying much attention when they rode it, the heavier drugs still making their way out of his system and causing him to feel a bit woozy. He hadn't done a whole lot of walking lately either, minus working with that tall man who'd called himself a physiotherapist, so at the time he had been focussed on remaining upright. The chrome doors slid closed with a clank, and, after Gemma pressed the number 6 button on the side panel, the lift lurched up. Thorin's stomach dropped slightly. He wasn't fond of elevators, he decided.

"I've got something in the oven," Gemma told him, breaking the silence in the tight space. "I know I'm not much of a cook, but I thought I'd try a roast chicken, something nice for you coming... um, back to my place." She pursed her lips awkwardly.

"I'm sure it will be lovely, amralime," Thorin told her with a small smile. He was touched that she made the effort, but also worried; Gemma was not kidding when she said she wasn't a good cook.

The elevator released them with a tiny ding, and Gemma led Thorin down a nondescript hallway, taupe wallpaper slightly peeling and wooden doors spaced at intervals along either side, brass numbers proclaiming "604, 605, 606..."

They stopped at the door at the very end of the hall, number 614. Gemma produced a small silver key from the pocket of her navy pea coat, deftly slid it into the lock, and swung the door open, ushering Thorin inside.

The entryway was painted turquoise, with wrought iron coat hooks lining one side, and a small closet to the left. A circular white table holding a fluted cranberry glass bowl, a tissue box, and a single picture frame—a landscape photograph—stood to the right, with a large oval mirror above it. Thorin, following Gemma's lead, took off the cheap sand shoes Parker had bought him and stowed them under the table, the followed her into a living area.

This room was pale green, with a plush white couch and stout armchair contrasting the dark wood floors of the apartment. Another circular table, this one with drawers below and holding a vase of huge sunflowers, stood between the couch and the wall mounted television. Through the large window Thorin could see a rickety metal balcony; the fire escape, Gemma had called it. The other side of the room opened up to the kitchen, with its crisp white cupboards, black marble countertops, and shiny chrome appliances. There were two shut doors in the kitchen, likely leading to the bathroom and bedroom.

It was small, but still felt spacious and utterly foreign to Thorin. The heavy, sumptuous style of furniture that was common in Erebor was replaced by a sleek, minimalist style which felt clean and elegant, if not a bit cold. Thorin searched the space for signs of personality. There were a few more photo frames, most holding more cityscapes and nature photos. An eclectic mix of patterned cushions stuffed the couch, matching a bohemian rug. The thin bookcase beside the television was full of novels and files, and held a few knickknacks as well. In a corner by the window there was a rack with what looked like exercise equipment (though he might be mistaken, he was only going off of what he'd seen in infomercials on the hospital TV).

"Here, sit down on the couch, I'll grab you a blanket." Gemma proceeded to titter about, trying to make him comfortable.

"Gemma, I am fine, please stop fussing," Thorin said when she fluffed the same pillow for a third time.

"You're still recovering from a massive stab wound to the stomach, which could have killed you. Excuse me for worrying," she huffed.

Thorin grabbed her hand and pulled her to sit beside him. She didn't let go of his hand once she was pressed up beside him.

"It's just weird," she said after a moment's pause. "You, being here. In my apartment. It's all a bit... well it's thrown me for a loop."

"Indeed," Thorin agreed with a frown. "It is surreal."

"I know you said... but, um, I just want to say I'm sorry again. For... this, everything this is going to be. Because this is going to suck, for me, for you, for a really long time. I can hardly imagine how _I'm_ going to adapt to being back after scarcely being gone for six months. I don't know what you're going to do."

Thorin felt his stomach roll at her words, but swallowed hard and pushed it down. There was no need to make this harder than it needed to be, especially if it would make her upset. "I shall manage just fine," he said resolutely.

Gemma frowned and brushed her fingers across his knuckle. "No, don't do that. Thorin..." But she cut herself off and, wide eyed, sucked in a great big breath through her nose. Thorin sniffed too, and was met with the smell of smoke.

Gemma tumbled off the couch and lunged towards the kitchen.

Thorin, unable to vacate the couch, could only sit there and listen to the sound of Gemma banging around in the kitchen, which was accompanied by a loud "Son of a bitch!"

It was a good thing he wasn't marrying her for her class and refinement.

"Gemma?" he called.

"'s fine," she hollered back, a bit louder than necessary. She appeared in the doorway, looking rather shaken.

"So dinner's been absolutely fucked over, unless you prefer your bird exceptionally charred."

Thorin was distracted by the thought of what would have happened if they had stayed and Gemma had become the queen. In this moment, with her swearing with a skill that would rival the roughest of miner dwarves, he found the idea incredibly amusing.

Oblivious to his thoughts, Gemma came back to the couch and slumped back, throwing a slightly trembling hand over her eyes. She was upset, and Thorin didn't quite know why. So the dinner had been ruined. If he was being honest, it wasn't altogether surprising, given her track record while on the road with the Company. Bombur hadn't let her near his cooking after the first week. But the burnt dinner wasn't something he'd expected her to get so worked up about.

"My dear, it is alright," Thorin said slowly.

"Yeah," Gemma sighed, straightening up again. She looked exhausted, more than anything. "I was just hoping to have something nice for you when you came, so you wouldn't feel so... out of place. Which is stupid, because you're as out of place as anyone could ever be. A goddamn chicken isn't going to change that."

"On the contrary," Thorin said, "this has made me feel right at home, if only for the moment. I do believe that I could never feel unwell under your gentle care, for it is one of your many virtues which I love most."

Gemma drew him forward, still minding his bandaged torso, and wrapped him in her arms, pressing a kiss into the side of his head. He rested his hand on her back and held on for a long time.

"Thorin," Gemma said at last, into the crook of his neck, "as sweet as that was, you're starting to air on the cheesy side. Rein it in a bit, eh?"

Thorin pressed his lips by her ear and replied "I have absolutely no idea what that means." Gemma dissolved into laughter, which he eagerly joined.

"Right... We'll order pizza, I guess," Gemma declared when there laughter subsided. "Trust me, you'll love it. In fact, it will probably taste a million times better than the chicken, even if it hadn't been burnt."

Thorin didn't think of it until she had left the room, throwing the window open to rid the apartment of the stench of smoke. Perhaps she hadn't only been upset about the ruined dinner. He'd somehow managed to forget the trauma she'd suffered. The scent of smoke, even from a burning chicken, could have triggered a memory of her torture and sent her into relapse. In fact, it was a surprise that she had not suffered worse. And Thorin felt terrible for only thinking of it now.

Gemma emerged once more from the kitchen with some plates and bottles of beer, which she arranged on the coffee table. She then dragged a chair across the room and, clambering up to stand on it, began poking at a white circular thing attached to the ceiling.

"Gemma?"

"Hmm? Food should be here in twenty minutes, they said." she continued poking at the thing.

"What are you doing?" Thorin asked, bewildered.

"The smoke alarm didn't go off. I'm trying to figure out why."

She jabbed the thing with her thumb a few times. Thorin wondered how exactly that was going to tell her what was wrong, but instead asked, "What is a smoke alarm?"

Gemma stopped poking the device and looked over at him.

"It smells smoke, well not smells, I mean, it's not sentient, but it... detects it. That's the word! It detects smoke and then it—" Gemma was cut off by the shrill cries of the machine in question, which startled her enough to make her jump and bash her head against the ceiling. She stepped off the chair, rubbing her head gingerly. "That," she finished the thought bitterly. "It does that. Usually much _sooner_."

The machine shut off with the press of a button, leaving the aftereffects of its harsh sound ringing in their ears. Thorin felt utterly confused. Not about the device, just in general. This world was a very strange place.

She flopped onto the couch again and pulled another little gadget from the back pocket of her trousers. A cellphone, he recalled her saying. "God, so many fucking emails," she sighed, tossing the device on the table.

She finally looked at him again. "This is weird," she told him again earnestly. "Sorry, I know I'm being restless, but this is weird."

"Trust me Gemma, I am entirely too aware of the absurdity of the situation," Thorin agreed.

There was a buzz and then a knock at the door and then Gemma was bringing a large flat box that smelled heavenly into the living room. She opened the box the reveal a round sort of flat bread that was covered in a red sauce, cheese, mushrooms, and bacon, which she cut into wedges. Offering a slice to Thorin, she held the end and bit into the corner. Thorin copied her actions and nearly moaned. It was delicious. He could get used to this type of food being delivered right to the door.

So that was how Thorin and Gemma spent the first night of their new life together: curled up on the couch eating pizza together in companionable silence.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **Hey guys, sorry for the missed update last week. I'm the worst. But here's a super fluffy chapter to make up for it, with a hint of angst underneath. Plus the beginning of an ongoing war with smoke alarms. That could probably be really metaphorical, but I swear to God I only wrote it because my alarm did the same thing a couple weeks ago. Make sure to change your batteries, guys!**

 **Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts, as always. Thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing. I know things aren't very plot-y at the moment. Don't worry, it'll get there.**


	7. Anarchy in the Mind

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hobbit! I do own Gemma, and the other OCs found here.**

* * *

Chapter 7: Anarchy in the Mind

" _Don't know what I want, but I know how to get it"_

— The Sex Pistols, Anarchy in the UK

"And how does that make you _feel_?"

 _I don't know_ , Gemma wanted to say _, but this conversation is making me feel suicidal_. Instead she said, "Um... anxious, I guess?" It came out like a question.

For the past half hour, though it felt much longer, she had been discussing her myriad problems with her new psychiatrist, Dr. Strummer. He was a man in his mid-fifties, with long greying hair that he kept tied back and round glasses which made his eyes look three times their size. Gemma was convinced that he was a hippie. Why else would he be so inclined towards all this touchy-feely bullshit? On the other hand, why would the FBI ever hire someone like Strummer? So she'd give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.

Strummer raised his eyebrows slightly at her less-than-confident response, but pressed on. "And so you ran away after the explosion because of a relapse in this... anxiety?"

"Well, I mean... not exactly." Gemma struggled to find the words that would convince him of her lie. It wasn't like any of this had actually happened, so it was of no benefit to her psyche, but she had to maintain the front. "I mean, it was PTSD, wasn't it? I started having these flashbacks to... that other time... and I just sort of snapped. I had to get out of there."

"You were looking for an escape. Simply put, running away from your problems, not even intentionally; your mind suffered a mental break which forced dissociation. Isolating yourself in a world entirely separate from your issues can feel freeing. Suddenly everything seems easier. But problems always catch up, and this tendency to run away often only lets them stew beneath the surface, getting worse and worse."

Huh. So maybe he wasn't a complete crackpot. In fact, if she was being entirely honest with herself (which she didn't do very often), she would admit that Strummer had entirely summed up her experience in Middle Earth based on a completely different scenario. It seemed her lie was more reflective of the truth than she thought.

Strummer continued, "This need to escape is quite common in people working high-stress jobs. And combined with what I believe you have accurately classified as PTSD, it can be quite volatile. Which is why I am not going to put you on anti-depressants, at least, not yet; the escapist tendency can often manifest in drug abuse."

And here Gemma thought he was actually being reasonable and useful for a change. Now he wasn't even going to give her drugs? What sort of treatment was that?

Instead, Strummer told her to keep a journal of her present feelings and to record the things she experienced during both the recent trauma and the original torture. A feelings journal, Gemma thought. _Fuck me_.

* * *

Thorin didn't understand microwaves. He didn't understand electricity. He didn't understand atomic theory or human genetics. Hey definitely didn't understand reality TV. And, for the life of him, he didn't understand modern politics.

Gemma said this was fine, because these things were fairly inconsequential. She said he was being too hard on himself. After all, he'd pretty much figured out the kettle and the toaster, and now knew his way around the oven better than she did (though that was not a large accomplishment). He knew how to work the television, even though he didn't how it worked, and could follow most of what was going on in Game of Thrones and Jeopardy. He had devoured the world history textbooks she had found for him and had retained a remarkable amount of information. Gemma reckoned that he knew more world history that most Americans.

But Thorin still felt awfully useless, because there were a lot of important things he had yet to come to grips with. Money, for example, remained an issue. Paper money was baffling enough, never mind the credit system. Luckily, he could play it off as a foreigner issue. Gemma and Parker had decided the easiest thing to do was to pretend that Thorin was from England, because his accent seemed to resemble theirs slightly, and to blame cultural differences whenever his lack of Earthly knowledge caused someone looked at him like he was a complete lunatic. It had been working alright so far, but it didn't make things easier. He frequently used this excuse for language too. Sure, he spoke the Common Tongue, which had somehow become the same as this world's English language, but Thorin quickly discovered that he spoke the language very differently. His dialect was, apparently, equivalent to Medieval speak, which meant he was at least six centuries behind the modern version. What was a dude, or a bae? Why didn't people use "thou" or "thee" anymore? It seemed that Thorin was constantly guessing at the meaning of phrases, forcing his mind into overdrive so he could answer before the silence became awkward. So he pretty much just avoided talking to anyone at all.

But there were some things he couldn't make excuses for. Tiny things, things Gemma would never have even thought to teach him; the unspoken rules of society that couldn't be defined. He felt like curling into a ball and dying whenever he unwittingly violated one of these rules. It was in those moments that he felt more alien to this world than ever.

By now, Gemma felt confident enough in Thorin's abilities to suggest he go out on his own sometimes. He never went far, usually just for a walk around the block or to the park or the corner store, and rarely interacted with other people. But she felt it was good for him to get out a bit. It only made Thorin feel worse. He felt desperately alone in those times. But he did it, because Gemma wanted him to. A small, prideful part of his mind resentfully thought that he had somehow become Gemma's kept pet. He, who had lived a life of independence, was suddenly hopelessly dependent on this woman.

Thorin was on one of these walks now, deep in thought. He was so trapped in his bubble of melancholy that he didn't really notice until he walked right into someone else's back. It was a man, tall and broad shouldered, wearing a suit and talking into one of those cellphone devices while he leaned again a building and smoked a cigarette. The man drew himself up to full height, towering over Thorin, and bellowed, "Watch where you're _fucking_ going, you retard!" Thorin may not have understood just how offensive the man was being, but he got the gist of it.

He wanted to challenge the foul man. He wanted to stand up and fight. He'd win. Of course he'd win. It's what he would have done at home. When he was a blacksmith, travelling the settlements of Men, he would often find himself alone in a tavern with nothing but his fists to defend his honour. When he was amongst his own people, he never needed to defend his honour, for no one would dare disrespect it. But he'd spent the week learning the laws of this land. Fighting this man, he thought, might get him arrested for assault. Fighting for one's honour did not seem a common practice here.

Thorin was a prideful man. Once upon a time, in the prison cells of King Thranduil, Gemma had screamed at him for his pride. She'd told him a blow to his pride was a necessary sacrifice. But now, as he meekly stepped aside to allow the man to pass, Thorin thought a little pride was needed in this situation. What had happened to his pride? Thorin wasn't sure he liked who he had become in this world. Who was he, without his pride?

* * *

Gemma was in a mood. A mood she was currently taking out on the punching bag she'd hung in the corner of the living room. Her therapy sessions were not going well. At work, she was doing nothing but paperwork. Her nerves were fried. She'd snapped a pencil in half without meaning to that afternoon. So she strapped on some gloves, and two hours later she was still wailing away at the bag.

 _Punch_.

So maybe she'd yelled at Dr. Strummer and slammed the door on her way out. So what?

 _Uppercut. Jab._

And so what if she'd had a slight panic attack in the office bathrooms and spent an hour locked in a stall? That wasn't so bad.

 _Knee jab, elbow._

And yeah, maybe she was hiding a bottle of scotch in her desk drawer, but hey, it was real, fifteen year-old single malt. So… at least she was work-drinking with class.

 _Punch. Punch. Punch._

Her headphones were on and the Sex Pistols were screaming about anarchy and at some point she'd thrown off her gloves and begun punching the bag with her bare knuckles. They were bloody now.

She didn't notice when Thorin walked through the door, back from another of his walks. She punched harder at the bag and didn't stop until Thorin ripped her headphones off and grabbed her wrists.

"What in Mahal's name are you doing?!"

"What?" Gemma asked, yanking her wrists back from his hands. His palms were red with the blood of her knuckles. "Nothing, I'm fine."

Thorin just looked at her, shook his head slightly, and went to the bedroom.

Gemma didn't hear the slam of the door because she'd put her headphones back on and returned to the punching bag with bare bloody knuckles.

* * *

Thorin slammed the door and rested his fists against the other side. What was he supposed to do? Gemma was hurting, and he couldn't help her, because he was hurting just the same. This world was changing them both.

Gemma once told him the Middle Earth made things easier because everything seemed black and white. There were good guys and bad guys. Thorin hadn't understood or completely agreed at the time. After all, the issue between dwarves and elves was a complicated mess that seemed quite grey to him. But orcs were orcs, and killing them in battle brought no remorse or guilt. There were no good guys or bad guys here. People just seemed detached and selfish. And there was no sense of honour here. It was difficult to wrap his head around.

Thorin was homesick. That was the pitiful truth of it. No matter what he did, he'd find himself comparing this world to home, and finding this new place came up short. The problem was, he'd spent his whole life homesick. He'd fought for decades to build a new home for his people in the Blue Mountains, and then he'd fought the hardest battle of his life to free Erebor and reclaim the home for which he'd yearned for so many years. And then it was ripped away from him.

All the things he'd wanted to do in Erebor: relighting the forges, holding a ball in the grand hall, visiting the market, and hosting great sporting competitions. They had once seemed like a distant dream, but then they'd begun their quest and every step he took towards the mountain made these dreams more and more possible. And when those possibilities had finally been in his grasp, they'd lasted but a fleeting minute.

He'd been dreaming about taking his nephews, and later, even before he'd known he loved her, taking Gemma, on a grand tour of the city. They would have loved it. Fili and Kili had been raised on stories of Erebor, but words could never have prepared them for its majesty. Fili would have loved the royal library and the grand arena. Kili would have wanted to explore the mines or climb to the old queen's hidden garden near the very peak of the mountain. Gemma, he would have taken to the hot springs, or the royal study with walls made entirely of emeralds. Instead they'd been introduced to his glorious home in the midst of battle. They'd only ever gotten to see it in its ruins, with its columns knocked to the floor and a thick layer of dust dulling all the jewels and elaborate ornamentation. With the bodies of his people carpeting the ground.

He missed them, his wonderful nephews, so very much. They'd probably love it here. They'd surely make fun of him for moping around when an entirely new world was out there. Thorin collapsed on the bed and closed his eyes. He tried to picture his nephews' faces, but they seemed a little… out of focus. He tried to remember their laughter, but the memory sounds false, as if it was an invention of his own imagination and not the real thing. Thorin's breathe came in short gasps and he bit down on his fist to keep from shouting out. O Fili and Kili, the boys he'd raised as if they were his sons. Why was he allowed to live and they were not?

It wasn't that Thorin didn't appreciate this gift. He didn't blame Gemma for giving him a second chance to live. Despite what she thought, it wasn't her fault. She'd saved him and he really was grateful. But that didn't mean he had to enjoy this place. That didn't mean that he was going to be happy.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **Angst, angst, angst! What, you didn't think I was going to keep it light and fluffy this whole time, did you?**

 **I'm so sorry for the late updates. I really have no excuse. So I figured I'd better post this ASAP.**

 **It's one in the morning.**

 **Also, big thanks to all the readers who've stuck around, especially to those who have been reviewing.**

 **Drop me a line any time. Nothing makes me happier than hearing your thoughts.**


	8. The Sound of Silence

**Disclaimer: Actually, I own a lot of the stuff in this story. But not anything that comes out of The Hobbit.**

* * *

Chapter 8: The Sound of Silence

 _And in the naked light I saw_

 _Ten thousand people, maybe more_

 _People talking without speaking_

 _People hearing without listening_

— _The Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel_

"Jesus Christ! You murdered it!" Gemma yelled when she got home.

Thorin had been trying to be useful. Gemma complained every day that therapy and desk duty were melting her brain. So Thorin thought he'd try to cheer her up with food that wasn't takeout. Not that he minded takeout; like Gemma, he was partial to Italian food, and he quite enjoyed Thai food too. It was different than anything he'd ever tasted, but in a very good way. Still, Thorin knew a home cooked meal was a great comfort, and a sign of love. Thorin didn't cook much, except when he was on the road, but he figured he could cook pork chops and potatoes.

The chops turned out fine, once he got the stove working. He cooked them in the barbeque sauce and apple sauce he found at the back of her cupboard. The potatoes did not work out so well. He'd wrapped them in this metal foil he'd found, like the cooking website he'd stumbled upon, after much difficulty with a Google ad that tried to sell him a year's worth of hot sauce. The website said to use a barbeque, but Thorin was pretty sure Gemma didn't have one of those. Also, he didn't know how to use a barbeque, or what it was. Thorin did know how to use a microwave though, and he figured it would work best, since it was fast and Gemma would be home soon. So he put them in the microwave for three minutes and went back to cooking the pork chops.

It was a bad idea, apparently. Thorin learned later that metal was not meant for microwaves. He didn't understand why, but that really wasn't so important when the remains of the potatoes were up in flames and that contraption on the ceiling was screaming. He put out the fire with water from the tap, and then ran to the thing on the ceiling. Thorin remembered the first night he was at her apartment, when Gemma tried to cook him dinner and the thing went off. She'd climbed up on a chair and done something to make it stop. Now the situation was reversed in a twist of universal irony. But Thorin had one problem: even on a chair, he could not reach the blasted thing. He had grown several inches since the portal had… _normalized_ him, but he was still short by anyone's standards. The alarm was just out of reach, and was still blaring shrilly.

Thorin became fed up and confused and he didn't know what to do. He was alone. So he grabbed the first thing he could reach, a pair of metal kitchen tongs, and bashed at the device until the sound stopped. Its plastic casing fell to the ground and smashed, and its wires hung, disconnected and broken, from the ceiling. He stared at it blankly until Gemma came home and yelled.

* * *

Thorin couldn't sleep. It was late at night—the alarm clock read 2:39—and he was lying in Gemma's massive bed staring up at nothing. Gemma was curled up beside him, facing the opposite direction with her back pressed against his shoulder. He could hear her steady breathing, and knew she was slumbering deeply, or as deeply as was possible for people like them; people who had been through too much and had honed the instincts needed to constantly watch one's back.

Thorin was not awake because he felt unsafe. He felt no need to keep watch for some foul creature of the night. He was not awake because of terrorizing dreams, though they'd each suffered their fair share in the past few weeks in this world, and certainly before that as well.

Thorin was awake because of the noise. The bedroom, the apartment, the whole damn city, was far too loud in the wee hours of the morning when everything was meant to be still and silent. Back home, there was, of course, sounds of the night: an owl hooting in the distance, the hum of a Company member on watch, the crackle of a low burning fire, or the breeze. Even in Erebor or the Blue Mountains there could be heard late night creepers, or running water, or the breath of the guards outside his door. But those sounds were nothings, too silent and meaningless to draw Thorin from his sleep.

It was different here. Washington never seemed to sleep, and he could hear the sound of automobiles in the distance, just as he could see the slight radiance of the streetlamps through the heavy blinds on the window. In the apartment, he could hear the hum of the refrigerator and the radiator. But more than that, he felt he could hear this slight static noise, so infinitesimal that he might be imagining it. It was background noise, a buzz that could be electricity running through the air or something. It was unlikely that anyone in the city except him heard it, because he was the only one who had ever known a different sound of silence. The silence of the wilderness in Middle Earth felt fuller, larger. It had… depth, or some kind of indescribable quality which Thorin could only classify in this way.

Even silence sounded different here, and so Thorin could never allow himself to pretend, just for a moment, that he was home.

* * *

Thorin liked Ancient Roman. Of the many books and documentaries he'd ingested in his time here, he'd become most absorbed in books of Pompeii and Augustus and Pax Romana. As a leader of a mighty people, though for a shorter time than he had hoped, Thorin found this grand Empire insightful; a learning experience, perhaps. He became captivated by stories of emperors and republics. And so it was that on a Saturday evening he happened to be buried in a thick tomb, reading about Diocletian's splitting of the empire, when Gemma walked into the living room wearing nothing but her underwear.

He didn't notice her at first. He heard her enter the room, but was engrossed in the book and didn't look up. Gemma cleared her throat, not-so-subtly, and he finally tore his eyes away, dropping the book when he did.

Gemma was a beautiful woman. In her thin turquoise underwear lined with a little lace on the hems, and a simple white bra, her scars were on view, but so were her long legs and flat stomach, and the curve of her breasts and slide of her hips. These garments, Thorin had learned through a commercial for a place called Victoria's Secret and some shocking internet research, were comparatively modest to many of the things women wore for lingerie in this world. But they were more scandalous than anything in Middle Earth. Thorin shallowed but didn't get off the couch. Gemma raised an eyebrow and smirked at him. Thorin felt his face go red.

She walked towards him slowly. She didn't prowl, like some wicked seductress; she walked towards him the way Gemma walked: with both caution and confidence. No matter what she was doing, Gemma walked like she was trudging into danger. It was more seductive than any womanly slither. Thorin didn't move. He just watched as she came to stand right in front of him, hands on hips. Gemma sat down beside him, and Thorin had the strangest, most foolish idea that perhaps she was going to turn on the television and watch something in the nude.

Gemma didn't turn on the TV. Without a word, she grabbed his face and brought her lips to his, kissing him with all the fire and fury that he remembered. Thorin thought that he could very well spend the rest of his life like that. He returned the kiss with far less confidence than Gemma, but he worked up to the rhythm of her lips quickly. Her hands carded through his long hair—hadn't she suggested that he cut it only the other day?—and his wide hands hovered above her waist before resting higher up on her back. Gemma moaned, and wasn't that the most beautiful sound to him? She slid along the couch towards him, until she was pressed up against him and he was more aware than ever of how little clothing she wore. She licked along his lip and Thorin saw stars. And then she threw her left leg over his and swung up so that she was straddling him and—

In one quick movement, Thorin flipped them over, set her down on the couch and backed off, putting the coffee table in between them. He stood there, panting, and Gemma sat there, panting too, and the table was a barrier. He noticed that he'd left his coffee mug—for he'd finally figured out how to use the coffee maker—on the table and it had left a wet ring that was going to stain. Gemma's mouth was hanging open almost comically, as if it was still mid kiss. She looked like a vision, with her cheeks flushed and her hair mused so. It seemed to take an eternity for Thorin's breath, and mind, to catch up.

Gemma finally closed her mouth, in a frown, and then said, "What the fuck, man?"

Thorin raised his shoulders and said nothing.

"What gives? I think I made my message pretty clear." She opened her hands as if to say, _in case you didn't notice, I'm sitting here naked_. When Thorin said nothing, she leaned back and splayed her hand over her collarbone, covering the largest of her scars. She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth and then said angrily, "Fuckin' say something already!"

So Thorin said, "We should not… um…"

"Have sex?"

Thorin blushed. "Er… yes."

"Why not?"

"Well it is… not that… I simply…"

"Spit it out, for crying out loud!"

"It is improper."

Gemma furrowed her brow, confused, and said, "What?" She didn't understand.

"It is immoral and unbecoming to engage in… sex… with an unmarried woman."

"Right, but we're engaged so…"

"But not yet married. This is how I was raised, you see. As a member of the royal family and an heir to the throne, I had to perfectly follow our practices, lest I cause a scandal and dishonour the name of Durin. Dwarves are not prudish or overly concerned with poise, but it is still in our custom to marry a woman we are courting before intercourse."

Gemma folded her arms, looking a bit peeved. "Right, but that's not really the case here. So it's perfectly fine to—"

"No, that is not the point," Thorin cut her off. "I just do not think—"

"Thorin we already had sex! Or did you forget about Lake-town?"

Thorin rubbed the back of his neck. "No. No, of course not…"

"Well," said Gemma, "I thought it was quite good. Fantastic, even. And I'm pretty sure you did too, or else you're a very good actor. And you're sutures are out now and you're allowed to engage in 'strenuous' activity, so I really don't see what the problem is with our long-overdue round two. Or, technically round three, I suppose." She stood up, and Thorin stepped back, even though she was still on the other side of the coffee table.

"Lake-town wasn't…" Thorin struggled to say what he meant, "We were… well, you know… we were at the end of our journey and we were going to battle a colossal dragon." Otherwise, he wouldn't have… not that he wouldn't have wanted to, of course, but he would have had the proper restraint. It didn't matter where he was now… this was what he knew, how he was raised to respect the honour of a woman.

Gemma just didn't understand. "So it was… what? A fucking last hurrah? You only fucked me because we were going to die? You thought 'Oh well, no need for morals now, we're going to be barbeque anyway'?" It was strange, that Gemma could look intimidating in nothing but a bra and panties. "And now that you're not dead, thanks to _me_ , you decide 'oh, that was an awful thing to do, better not do that again'? You know what? Fuck you, Thorin."

She stomped to the bedroom and slammed the door, then emerged a few seconds later, fully clothed. She grabbed her leather jacket and car keys and went to the door. Thorin followed this time.

"Gemma," he said, trying to get her to understand. "That isn't—"

The door slammed closed before he had the chance to explain.

He hadn't meant to offend. That wasn't what he meant. Of course he didn't regret that night. Never could he. He just wished he could have done things right the first time, so he was trying to make up for it now. Maybe that wasn't how they did things here, but it was what Thorin knew. Gemma seemed to forget, with all the progress he was making to adapt to this world, that some things could not be changed so easily. And maybe he didn't want them to be.

Thorin sat back on the couch, but then, remembering what they had been doing there mere minutes ago, he stood back up and found a seat at the breakfast bar. The apartment was very quiet. Thorin put his head in his hands and sipped idly at the glass of water he had left there earlier that morning. It had gone a bit stale.

No, he wanted to be okay with it. By Durin, he wanted Gemma. He wasn't even really sure that it was his sense of propriety that was holding him back. He thought, perhaps, that it was the fact that this, too, was very different in this world. Sex was animal, instinctive. It should be one thing that was common between these worlds. But it was different. Thorin now realized that he was not adjusting nearly as well as everyone thought he was.

And now Gemma was angry with him, and though it wasn't his fault—Gemma hadn't exactly reacted reasonably—he still felt sorry. Angry, oh very angry, that she hadn't given him the chance to even explain; that her stubbornness was just as bad as his. But sorry, too. He didn't want to be alone here.

He just missed home.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **Hello? Is anybody still there? I'm so sorry for the terribly infrequent updates, guys. I have one more week of school, plus exam week, and then I'm free from high school! At the moment, I should be preparing for a massive French debate tomorrow but… well. So that's my excuse. I'm sure you're all tired of them by now.**

 **Thanks to all you lovely readers and reviewers for sticking with me and enjoying the story. This chapter is basically just about their relationship, and the shaky ground it's on right now. But really, it's too fun to write their fights. I kind of love this chapter.**

 **Let me know your thoughts. Also, I've written up to chapter 10, and am now starting eleven. The plot will finally be moving forward in that chapter. So don't worry, this isn't all just meaningless. There will be an actually story line, with a mystery and everything.**


	9. Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought

Chapter 9: Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.

—Sonnet 30, William Shakespeare

* * *

Gemma clicked her pen madly as she stared at the mountain of paperwork which covered her desk. She may be out of the field for the foreseeable future, but they were certainly keeping her busy behind the desk. The most exciting part of her day now was consulting with the Bureau academy professors to find some fresh blood for the team. Which was to say, not exciting at all, because all the rookies were, quite frankly, not even half as good as Chang had been. Parker said she was being picky because she didn't want to replace her old partner. Gemma was perfectly willing to admit that this was true, but it didn't change the fact that all the applicants truly were awful. Naïve and lacking in the experience a high level position like this should require. But perhaps fresh blood was just what the team needed.

She decided that attempting to get any more paperwork done would be impossible, so she left her desk in search of the shitty break room coffee. It wasn't half bad when spiked.

Gemma's phone rang for the third time in the hour. She didn't need to check it to know who it was. She had an appointment with Dr. Skinner nearly forty-five minutes ago. Apparently, he was persistent enough that he would not yield to being ignored. He must not be very busy, Gemma thought. She sighed. She could go down to her appointment and face an hour of touchy-feely bullshit, or she could return to the infinite mountain of field reports and incident forms. Rock and a hard place, this was.

So Gemma ended up in Dr. Strummer's office, an hour late, looking rather sheepish. Dr. Strummer was not amused. "Agent," he said, lifting a bushy eyebrow as Gemma took her seat. His hair, today, was pulled into a man-ponytail and he was wearing honest-to-God purple-tinted circular glasses. As a result, the effect of his stern expression was somewhat diminished. "So you've decided to drop in, hmm?"

"It was this or more paperwork. I picked the lesser of two evils."

"I'm honoured," Strummer deadpanned. "Perhaps we can start with your journal. Any entries in the last three days?"

"Well… no. But it makes a pretty good door wedge. The hinges on my bedroom door have been sticking, so I've gotta keep it open with something."

Strummer frowned at her behind his big glasses. Gemma stifled a smirk. "Fine, then," the doctor huffed, "if you're not writing your feelings down, are you at least talking with somebody about them?"

Gemma barked out a laugh. Strummer raised his eyebrows again. _No fair, dude, that's my move._

"Is something funny about that?"

Gemma bit her lip to hide the ever-present smirk. "It's just… I'm not the type to talk about my feelings. Like, _ever_. Even before all… this." She made a wild and vague gesture to represent just about everything. "It's the reason why I don't like coming here."

"Ah," said Strummer, and Gemma worried she had said something that would actually be useful to him. That was the _last_ thing she wanted. "Then let's talk about your inability to form relationships."

"Hey, hey, hey!" Gemma shouted. "No one said anything about an inability to form relationships. Where the fuck is that coming from? I can form relationships. You don't have to talk about your feelings all the time like an eighth grade angsty teenager with a crush to form relationships. I'm not some sort of recluse! I don't have an inability to do anything! Well, I can't open pickle jars very well, but that's not really relevant anyway, and besides that I'm pretty damn… able!"

Strummer stole her _thing_ again, raising the eyebrow. "It's seems you're overreacting a bit, Agent LaRoche. Getting… defensive," he said, and wrote something down in his little black notebook. That shut Gemma right up. Writing down notes was bad. Notes meant reports, which meant more hindrances to her getting back in the field. She saw Strummer look up and smirk slightly at her reaction. Great, now he was going to use her fear of his notes against her, like some sort of twisted Pavlovian conditioning.

"No," she said petulantly. "I'm not being defensive." Gemma saw his eyebrow begin to twitch, and she stopped him with an accusing finger. "Don't you raise your eyebrow at me again."

More notes in the black book. "Alright Gemma, let's just calm down."

"I am… I'm calm. I'm calm."

"Okay then. Let's just talk about your relationships. Are you seeing anyone right now?"

Gemma thought of Thorin and her agitation dissipated, replaced by a warm and gentle ache. "Yeah, I… I'm seeing someone. A guy… a man. And he's…" she remembered their fight the day before, and her smile drooped. He probably hated her. She had forced herself on him, hadn't she? Oh God's she'd pressured him, and made him uncomfortable, and hurt him. All because her wits were so at their end that she'd needed some sort of outlet, some kind of release. She'd forgotten what he was going through… no, worse, she had simply neglected to consider it. And Thorin was… to her he was…

"He's real great."

The doctor pursed his lips "And how has he reacted to your situation? How much does he know about it?"

"He knows. About this time and before. I've told him what happened. He understands." She hadn't meant to clip her words. They just… were.

"But have you talked about the aftereffects—the insomnia, the anxiety, the flashbacks and depression? Have you talked with him about what you're feeling right now?"

"Well…" Yeah, Gemma wanted to say. She had, hadn't she? But no, not really. She'd been tiptoeing around him, wary of his grief and the way he was coping with his new situation. She was looking out for him. He shouldn't have to deal with her issues when he was dealing with his own. "We talk. But he's got his own troubles right now. I don't want to…" She trailed off.

"Gemma," Strummer said in a quiet, pleading voice. "This is serious. You have to talk to someone. I don't care if you don't talk to me, just talk to someone. If you cannot talk to this man, who else?"

Gemma felt uncomfortable.

 _Vulnerable_.

She much preferred superficial banter to this, so she said, "Alright John Lennon, I get what your trying to say. I'll get by… _with a little help from my friends_."

There was an elongated pause, and Gemma resisted a smirk, ready to accept the doctor's berating for once again making light of the situation.

She was surprised, but pleased, when he instead replied, with veiled amusement, "Yes well, it's going to be a _long and winding road_ , but you can't just... _let it be_. You've got to accept some… _help_."

Gemma was impressed, and couldn't help but one up him. "I suppose things will be a bit _helter skelter_ for a while. I'm going to have a few _hard day's nights_. But _all things must pass_."

"Ah ah, _All Things Must Pass_ is George Harrison, post Beatles-breakup, so that doesn't count," Dr. Strummer chuckled, shaking his head. He took off his round glasses and swiped a hand across his forehead. "You're going to be the death of me Agent LaRoche, you really are."

"I've heard that before, John."

"You know, one day we're going to get around to your use of nicknames as a defense mechanism. But today is not that day." He wrote something else in his notebook; perhaps a reminder. Then he gestured at her with his glasses and said," You know, it's not even a good nickname. These glasses are clearly Janis Joplin glasses, not Lennon's."

"Would you prefer I call you Janis, then?"

"That's not what I…"

"Hey I don't judge. Your gender identity is your prerogative."

"Gemma…" The doctor clearly regretted saying anything. But you shouldn't mess with a sass master unless you can handle what's coming.

"Alright, something different… I'll call you Lebowski. 'Cause you look like The Dude from The Big Lebowski." He really did. In fact, Gemma didn't know why she hadn't seen it earlier. Right down to the long hair and the little beard, he was a pretty good Jeff Bridges double. Apparently Dr. Strummer didn't agree.

"Oh, come on now. I don't even like bowling."

Gemma smirked. If all her therapy sessions were like this, she wouldn't mind so much. The doctor was probably only indulging her in order to improve their rapport, but Gemma would admit it was working. Any fan of the Beatles and Lebowski couldn't be all bad.

"Yeah, well," She glanced down at the area rug beneath his desk and the chairs, an artsy thing that was multi-coloured and had a pattern of interlocking squares. "Your rug really ties the room together," she said with a wink. Strummer rolled his eyes in amused tolerance.

"Alright, all joking aside, I need you to listen. We won't do any more journals if you promise me this: talk to somebody, really _talk_ , about how you're feeling right now. I'd prefer it to be me, but I really don't care who as long as you do it. You can't keep bottling things up. You've been doing that for far too long and it's unhealthy. If you really think highly of this man that you're seeing, talk to him about what's going on in your head right now."

Gemma stood from her chair, recognizing that this was the end of their session. She took her time replying. "Alright," she said, finally, and the amount of sincerity in her voice seemed to satisfy Strummer. And Gemma was pretty she that she actually was sincere about it now.

She made her way to the door, but was stopped one more time when Dr. Strummer called after her from his desk. "Gemma?" She turned to face him. " _Don't let me down_."

John Lennon, 1988. She chuckled slightly, and gave him a loose two fingered salute as she exited the office.

She wasn't going to let him down. She may not like it, but the doctor was right. She had to start taking her rehabilitation seriously. She had to talk to someone.

* * *

Gemma's apartment felt especially empty and foreboding on that particular day. Thorin, in his restlessness, had walked around the block four times. He could have gone farther, instead of repeating the same boring circuit. He could have explored. The old him would have been itching to explore. There was nothing to hold him back. But he never went further than the block.

In any event, it had started pouring outside so he had returned to the confines of the apartment. If the weather had not interfered he would have continued making aimless circles for hours more.

There was little room for pacing in the apartment. And after Gemma's incident with the punching bag, he was not inclined to use the exercise equipment. So, despite his restlessness, Thorin resigned himself to more reading. He was taking in so much information each day, in a futile attempt to catch up on the last six thousand years or so, that his mind felt as if it might fracture into a million pieces. So Thorin ignored the stack of informational texts that Gemma had collected on his request, and wandered over to the large bookshelf in the corner of the living room.

He perused the titles slowly, contemplating each one. Gemma had stacks of plastic cases (movies, she had said) and a large cardboard box full of paper sleeves (records, apparently) jammed into the bottom shelf. The second row from the bottom held thick non-fiction tomes, several of which had already been transferred to Thorin's reading pile. These books were interspersed with file folders, thick and thin. Thorin avoided these. The rest of the shelves contained novels, some well-worn ( _The Catcher in the Rye_ , _Alice in Wonderland_ , a book with a skull on the front entitled _Trainspotting_ ) while others appeared untouched. A few photos sat on the shelves in little black frames too; all picture of places or things except one, which contained the image of a handsome man with salt and pepper hair, his arm flung around the shoulder of a teenaged Gemma. She looked happier and brighter in this image that Thorin had ever seen. Untouched.

But it was the top shelf which interested Thorin the most. The books there were dusty, as if they had not been opened in years. Their covers were not glossy or thick paper like the others, but bound in leather or cloth covered, with no pictures on the front. He scanned the titles:  
 _Macbeth_ , _The Iliad_ , _The Divine Comedy_ , and several books with ornately decorated covers entitled _Masterpieces of Poetry_ : _Volume_ 1, 2, 3…

Thorin, with the help of a sturdy kitchen chair, dragged one of these anthologies down and pried open the cover, coughing at the dust which was shaken loose.

Inside, scrawled in wobbly blue letters, was a note. "To Dabby. Lov Gemma." It was followed by a long series of exes and ohs and lopsided hearts. This book had been a gift from Gemma to her father. Thorin felt as if he was intruding on something deeply personal, but could not find the will to return the book to its dusty shelf. The childish writing evoked a watery smile. It reminded him of the way Kili used to write when he was but a wee boy. Thorin tried to imagine Gemma ever being that young. It was both a pleasing and surreal image.

He ran his thumb along the edges of the pages, until his fingernail snagged on a dog-eared corner. He turned to it. "Sonnet 30. William Shakespeare" the page proclaimed.

Thorin read the words slowly and with great care. They were… beautiful. But more than that, they reminded him of home, as they were written in an older tongue. And the words themselves… Thorin felt overwhelmed.

 _When to the sessions of sweet silent thought_

 _I summon up remembrance of things past,_

 _I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,_

 _And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste_

Thorin heard the door to the apartment open some hours later. He was still staring at the poem, lost in thought.

 _But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,_

 _All losses are restor'd and sorrows end._

* * *

 **AN:**

 **Hello all, I'm back. Thanks again for hanging around. Guess who finally got the hell out of high school… this girl!**

 **This chapter is full of references that I'm not expecting all of you to understand. During Gemma and Dr. Strummer's conversation, they make reference to the titles of many songs by the Beatles, which is part of Gemma's joke about Strummer looking like John Lennon. There are also references to The Big Lebowski, which is a hilarious and phenomenal Coen brothers film that I recommend to everyone. That's where the whole "Your rug really ties the room together" joke comes from. All the books mentioned on Gemma's bookshelf are absolutely fantastic, though the poetry anthologies aren't real. Finally, the sonnet at the end is one of my absolute favourites, and is quite fitting in this place.**

 **Let me know what you guys think. I know the chapters haven't been very action packed, but hopefully they've made you laugh.**

 **Also, I know you guys are here because you're Hobbit fans, but if, during the course of these stories, you have at all enjoyed my own writing style, and if you're bored and looking for something short and original to read, I'd love it if you checked out my short story** "Put on a Happy Face" **which I have posted on Fictionpress. The link is in my bio.**

— **JensPen**


	10. Almost Blue

Chapter 10: Almost Blue

" _Just because you're breathing, doesn't mean you're alive."_

― _Carew Papritz_

* * *

"Enter," came the terse reply from the other side of the door. Gemma did so.

"You wanted to see me, Parker?"

In lieu of answering, Parker tossed a file at her like a frisbee. It was the one thing about him that wasn't professional; he liked to throw stuff. This presented a problem when he was in a bad mood, which was why no one ever bought him potted plants anymore, and why he had an assortment of coloured stress balls lined up neatly in the top drawer of his desk.

Gemma opened the folder, and her eyes were caught on a single word: ' _approved_ '. "What, are these my field work permissions?"

"Yup," was the only reply she got. Her boss was already engrossed in some other form or invoice.

Sure, Gemma was happy, but she was a little surprised. It had been three months now since she got back. Three months of therapy and paperwork and fruitless recruitment searches. It had felt like forever. But in reality… in reality, three months was not exactly adequate recovery time. And sure she'd been making headway with Dr. Strummer, (who actually didn't end up being so bad, once he cut out some of the touchy-feely stuff) but… "Did the doc approve this?"

Parker grunted an affirmative. Gemma, unsatisfied with such a noncommittal answer, starred at him in silence until he elaborated. "With slight pressure from on high."

"What?" Gemma had thought the Bureau would have learned their lesson after this, the second clusterfuck.

"We're criminally understaffed at the moment. No senior agents. B team's been scrambling to fill our shoes, and you know they're useless."

"What about D team?" The labelling system within the CTU was abysmal. B team and C team were better suited for handling the false threats and dealing with intel. They were, indeed, useless in the field. D team, on the other hand, wasn't half bad. In which case, Gemma thought, wouldn't it make sense to call _them_ B team?

"They're in Alaska for the foreseeable future."

"Alaska?"

"Alaska."

She wasn't going to get any elaboration on that.

Gemma knew she should probably say no. She wanted to heal, needed more time. But… she really wanted back in, too.

"Alright then."

"Besides," Parker continued as if he hadn't needed her confirmation, "we need you to train the new agent."

"Excuse me? What new agent? I didn't approve of any new agent. Who is it?"

"Brockwell. He was on your shortlist."

Her shortlist had been full of the best of the applicants. It still hadn't been promising. "David Brockwell? Kind of short? Blond? Super muscular? Ego as big as the fuckin' Empire State Building?"

"There was only one Brockwell on your list, LaRoche."

Gemma shook her head. "I don't like him. Too cocky. He'll get the stuffing ripped right out of him in a week."

"That's why you'll be training him. You can… rip out his stuffing, as you say, ahead of time so that it doesn't happen in the field."

"But…"

"My decision's final." Parker finally looked up from his paper work. "Everyone is cocky on the first day here. You know that. It'll go away."

"What? I wasn't."

This finally evoked an emotional response from Parker, in the form of laughter. "You never stopped being cocky."

Gemma bit her tongue to hold back a snarky response. She might be closer with Parker after the incident, but he was still her boss. And the good Dr. Strummer wanted her to work on her "sass defence mechanism" (to use his technical term). "At least he's not a complete rookie," she replied instead. Brockwell had worked organized crime for the past four years.

She made to leave Parker's office, but was stopped when Parker called her name. "Gemma. It's going to be okay, you know?" He wasn't talking about the newbie. He was talking about her reinstatement. "I'll be here."

And Gemma saw in her boss' eyes that he wasn't happy with the decision either. Whoever "pressures from on high" was, he must be a pretty high-ranking and/or scary motherfucker, to pressure both the immovable Dr. Strummer and Agent Scott Parker, who was, himself, the scariest of scary motherfuckers.

* * *

"And you just said 'alright then'?!"

"Well… yeah…"

Thorin wasn't having any of this. They hadn't had a fight, a real proper fight, not just an everyday spiff, since the lingerie incident, which Gemma had apologized for. They were back to sleeping in the same bed and everything now. Of course, they were both majorly depressed, but, thanks to Dr. Strummer, they had finally talked about it. So the couple was on relatively good terms, not with themselves perhaps, but with each other. But this… this was shaping up to be a full-blown argument.

"What did the doctor say?"

"He approved it."

"Hmph," Thorin puffed, unimpressed. "And Parker was fine with it?" Thorin liked her boss well enough. He was a bit gruff, but then, who was Thorin to talk? Still, Thorin knew that Parker cared for Gemma, and was surprised by his decision.

"He was," Gemma insisted.

"This does not please me… but I suppose I can do little to prevent it." He knew better by this point. "Just be careful, love."

Gemma kissed his cheek, and dished out a second helping of casserole. Thorin had gotten quite good in the kitchen. He was no Bombur, but his dinners were more than palatable.

"So, what did you do today?" Gemma deflected. It was always the same question.

Thorin took a long drink from his beer bottle (which paled in comparison to dwarven brew, but was still alcohol and so served its purpose). "I finished my book. That's the modern inventions one. Then I walked to the park, and then went to the gym. Then I return to cook supper."

It was almost always the same story. Thorin felt that he was living in a bubble sometimes. He was a housewife—not the kind on those awful television shows—who spent his days doing the simple errands he was able to do, and reading and walking around rather aimlessly in a city that suffocated him with its busy alien-ness. He hated it, the city. Erebor had been a city, and he'd thrived there. Even the towns of men had not bothered him. But this… by Mahal did he hate it. Gemma knew. They'd talked long and hard about it. Thorin had never really told her the extent of it, but she knew he was unhappy. There was just nothing she could do about it. Thorin did not resent her for it. He knew that, given the chance, she would leave this all behind and go back to Middle Earth. But they could not dwell on such fantasies. So, in an uncharacteristic and rather unnerving display of optimism, Gemma encouraged his repetitious daily stories, acting as if she was genuinely interested in his monotonous day. Thorin both loved her and hated her for it. She was, at least, trying

"Did you talk to anyone today?" Another of her favourite questions. Gemma worried that Thorin was lonely, and it was true. He lived his life through hers now. But he tried to make an effort nonetheless. "I said hello to the lady who works at the gym. Told the grocer I was making dinner for my fiancé when I bought the cauliflower."

Fiancé. That was an entirely separate issue that had yet to be discussed. Gemma's ring sat, unworn, on her night table. It would cause too many questions at work.

"That's good," Gemma said, and they went back to eating dinner in silence.

* * *

Training Brockwell wasn't as bad as she'd thought it would be. This was mainly because Gemma finally had a suitable outlet for all her stress.

"What the hell is this bullshit?" She brandished his report at him. "If this is how they do it over in organized crimes, I oughta sic the fucking inquiry committee on their asses. And look at this. What is this word? 'Attend'? You didn't even cross the t's. I don't read your mind, Brockwell. I look at this word and I see 'allend'. What the hell does that mean, Brockwell? I'm not going to _allend_ a meeting, am I? I know that 'dot your i's and cross your t's' is just a saying, but in your case I think there might be some literal merit, huh?"

Brockwell, for his part, was taking it like a champ, and if Gemma were being honest, she would admit that she thought he was a good fit for the team. After Gemma kicked his ass on the first day in an impromptu wrestling match at the gym, his ego mellowed to a healthy self-confidence. More importantly, the young agent hung onto her every word like she was God's prophet. Apparently her reputation, and horror stories, preceded her, and garnered something of a little fan club. She was only eight years older than Brockwell, not even forty yet, but she had suddenly become the wise old agent that the newbies all wanted to learn from.

Gemma didn't actually mind it.

"LaRoche! Brockwell!" The shout reverberated out through Parker's open door. Her boss followed it, stalking through the bullpen towards the exit. "Mall in Baltimore. Potential bomb. Gun, badge, now." He was through the door before they could look up.

"Well, come on," Gemma yelled at Brockwell as she too sped for the door. She tried not to smirk as Brockwell scrambled.

* * *

Thorin didn't feel like going for a walk today. He didn't want to go to the gym. The fridge was well stocked so he didn't need to go shopping. And, after reading the same sentence five times over, he gave up on reading his newest book.

Thorin could remember a time when he could pick up a sword and scrounge up some unlucky opponent whenever he was bored. He had no sword here. Gemma had bought him a heavy wooden dowel which he practiced with every morning, but it didn't feel at all right in his hands.

New scars had been added to his collection. Crescent moons in the middle of his palm from when he would clench his fists when it all got too much.

Nothing to do, Thorin searched the bookshelves once more. He'd read most of the old poetry anthologies that had belonged to Gemma's father already. So Thorin dragged out the battered leather case and cardboard box which occupied the lowest shelf. A record player, Gemma called it. Old technology, though it seemed just as futuristic to Thorin. And, according to Gemma, gave better sound. Not all things old were worse.

The box contained thin paper sleeves protecting large black discs, which exclaimed names like "The Rolling Stones", "The Clash", and "Talking Heads". That was Gemma's music. He'd tried listening to it before, but it had been difficult. He was trying to keep an open mind, but Thorin had never been a very open person, and Gemma's punk rock was just too different from anything he'd ever known. Shockingly so. It was frightening music, with wailing guitars and… _unconventional_ singing. Gemma had admitted to him that it wasn't the most popular of music anymore, here on Earth. Thorin had also listened to "pop" music, and he hadn't really enjoyed that either, because the music didn't even sound like it was being made by real instruments. So far, he'd only enjoyed some of the classical stuff that Parker had lent to Gemma. Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries was rather enjoyable, and Gemma had been thrilled by that, as it apparently was related to some film she liked but said they shouldn't watch yet because it would confuse the heck out of him. In reality, it was Gemma's words that were "confusing the heck out of him", as she said. Thorin didn't follow half the things that came out of her mouth. But it had brought a beautiful smile to her face, which had been absent for some time, so Thorin said nothing.

But Thorin wanted to learn to love this world's music. No doubt the other Company members would have adored it. Ori would have transcribed all the words. Bofur would have danced a dwarvish jig to it, even if it was wildly off the beat. So Thorin flipped through the records and then opened the thin brown case that was tucked into the box as well. It revealed more records, these ones older—their jackets faded and frayed at the edges. No doubt these belonged to Gemma's father, just as the poetry books had. It seemed that Gemma's apartment was full of his memory, left tucked away and untouched but always present. Thorin thought he would have liked the man. So he pulled out the record from a particularly well-loved sleeve, and set it up on the player, taking extra care lest he mess up the device.

The opening notes of a song, slow and warm and round, filled the room. Jazz, it would seem, though Thorin did not know what that entailed. He lay on the couch, closed his eyes, and let the tones wash over him. The sounds were deep, and melodious, and wistful. Thorin decided he liked jazz. He was startled when, after several minutes without singing, a smoky male voice began to croon.

 _Almost blue. Almost doing things we used to do_ …

The song carried on, and when it ended he started it up again.

The front door opened just as he put it on for the third time.

It was Gemma of course. But something was wrong. Her eyes were red and her face was set in that look that it got when she was marching into battle or barely holding herself together. At her sides, her hands were clenched in tight fists that quavered slightly.

Thorin forgot about the music. For all the difficulty they were still having with their relationship, he now knew when to set it aside. In moments like these, Thorin was no longer useless; he was the only person who could be there for Gemma, the only one who would understand.

"What is it?" he asked, stepping forward. Gemma said nothing, just walked forward and wrapped him in her embrace, burying her nose into his neck. His added height made this a little bit easier now, but she still had to hunch down to him. Thorin ran a large hand along her shoulder blades. He knew they'd gone out on assignment today. She'd gone out into the field for the first time since getting back. Something must have happened. He wanted to ask. But instead he just swayed with her to the smooth blues music that was still playing, until he was leading her in a lazy slow dance.

Gemma rubbed her face against Thorin's shoulder and said in a rough voice, into his ear, "Why is this so awful?" Thorin pulled back to look up at her. For all the times she'd purposely towered over him, now she looked tiny and hunched, despite the superior height. Gemma elaborated. "You're not happy here. I'm not happy here, and I'm not happy that you're not happy. What's the point of surviving the battle if we can't enjoy living after it?" She slid her hands up to his cheeks and then into his hair, before crushing him to her again.

"I'm so sorry. I'm going to fix this," she whispered in his ear. "I'm going to make this all better."

 _Flirting with this disaster became me. It named me as a fool who only aimed to be…_

 _Almost blue._

* * *

 **AN:**

 **Hey everybody. Still trying and failing to improve my update schedule. I'm not really happy with the chapters lately. They're getting a bit monotonous I feel. The next chapter will hopefully be the last of this mopey depressing stuff. I know where I'm going with this story; it's just been a bit tricky getting there. But thanks for continuing to read despite this.**

 **The song is Almost Blue by Chet Baker, though it is actually a cover of Elvis Costello's song. Chet Baker's version is absolutely gorgeous though, so that's the one I heard in my head while writing. For some reason, Thorin as a jazz fan both amused me and seemed very fitting.**

 **Hope you're all having a good summer.**

 **-JensPen**


	11. The Fix

**Disclaimer: Still don't own it, never will.**

 **AN: I'm a terrible person. This was meant to be up this past weekend. Actually even earlier. But chapter 12 was giving me issues and working with tiny children is exhausting and enrolling in university courses is complicated. Still, no more excuses! Thanks for sticking with me all this time. The second part of this chapter picks up where chapter 10 left off, and the rest of the chapter builds up to the first section. Okay, I'll shut up now. Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 11: The Fix

 _The need for change bulldozed a road down the center of my mind._

— _Maya Angelou_

"Thorin!" Gemma rounded the corner to grab him as he came in the door from his walk. "Thorin, Thorin, Thorin!" She was smiling wider than he'd seen in a long time. She was practically bouncing up and down, like a Labrador puppy on ecstasy. "Close your eyes."

"Pardon?" Thorin said. "Gemma—" He was cut off when Gemma covered his eyes and nearly shoved him into the living room. "What in Mahal's name is going on?"

Gemma didn't answer his questions, just continued to lead him towards the living room. Finally she stopped, planting Thorin firmly in the centre of the room, and moved her hands away from his eyes. "Surprise!" she exclaimed, and Thorin opened his eyes.

* * *

 _Two weeks earlier…_

Thorin pulled out of her embraced and held her by the elbows, looking over her with worry. The record player skipped, and the song came to an end. Another slow jazz tune started up, a wistful trumpet singing lowly. "You don't have to fix anything Gemma. It's not all up to you."

"But it is. I know you Thorin, and this," she gestured up and down his whole body, "this isn't you. Where's your fire, your pride, your anger? You're all quiet and tepid now and I don't know what to do about it but I have to do something. Because that's who I am. And I miss you and I hate that we can't talk and I don't want you to just live here. I don't want us to just survive."

Thorin ran the pads of his calloused fingers along the soft inside of her elbows in little brush strokes. He pulled her towards the couch and lowered them bother down so that they were on an even level. Here, he could better see the redness of her eyes. "Something happened when you went out in the field today." It was a statement, not a question, delivered in a gruff voice that meant she _would_ talk to him whether she wanted to or not.

"Not really," Gemma said slowly, and at the stern look he cast her, she shook her head. "No I'm serious, nothing actually happened. The mission went well. It wasn't even a real bomb, just someone trying to cause panic and a duffle bag full of stolen shit. But see… there's this new kid." Gemma scratched her head and rubbed at her eyes, taking her time to find the words she needed. Thorin waited. "Brockwell's his name. And fuck… he's not even a kid. He's a grown ass man with four years in the Bureau and a good head on his shoulders even if he is a bit of a cocky little shit sometimes, but really, I shouldn't call him a kid. It's just for a second there, I thought the bomb was real… and I thought… what if this kid dies? He's going to die and that'll be on me because he looks up to me and now he's going to die and…" She took a deep breath, "For that second he just looked so much like Fili. Fuck, he looked just like him, when he's concentrating and he's got his battle face on. And Jesus, Thorin, what the hell am I supposed to do with that? When the kid that I'm supposed to be mentoring reminds me of the kid we just lost? How am I supposed to… I'm just terrified, fucking terrified of these life or death situations, which is crazy because I live for them, you know?"

Thorin felt his heart clench at her words. He understood; of course he understood. Because she felt responsible for everyone, and that lay their deaths on her shoulders with the undeniable weight of guilt, warranted or not. Thorin felt it too; that was the price of leadership. He drew Gemma into his arms and traced intricate designs on her back, soothing the sobs that weren't actually escaping her mouth. Her breath smelt like whiskey. She had been drinking, possibly while on duty. It was so unlike Gemma, who took nothing seriously except everything that was truly serious, which damn well included her job. And yet it was completely unsurprising to Thorin. She wouldn't have been willing to have this talk otherwise.

Thorin didn't bring it up. In fact, he didn't say anything, just continued to trace looping circles along her spine.

"I just want us to be okay, Thorin. I want us to be like we used to be, even if that means constant bickering and insatiable anger with each other. I don't want us to be stuck in this limbo, halfway between here and Middle Earth. Because neither of us are _living_ right now. So I'm going to try to fix it. I'm going to find a way."

* * *

 _One week earlier_

"LaRoche. My office," Parker called from his doorway, curt as ever. The man was downright frugal with his words; you'd think the dictionary was going out of print and he was trying to conserve a limited supply. Gemma, who had been throwing paper into the waste bin with her feet up on the desk out of sheer boredom, jumped at the sound of his voice. Brockwell, from his desk across from her, tried and failed to hold back a snigger, which Gemma answered by chucking a wad of paper at his head before heading to Parker's office.

She took a seat in front of her boss' desk and waited while he finished something up on his computer, typing excruciatingly slow in his hunt-and-peck style. Parker turned away from his screen and fixed her with an 'I mean business' sort of stare. Gemma tried not to fidget. "You may not know this," Parker began slowly, as if carefully deliberating his words, "but I have been receiving some... suggestions of retirement. Before the Pennsylvania incident I was able to brush them off, but after... well, I was seriously considering it. And then you came back and those pressures were put off for a while. But you've settled in now so it seems like a good time to consider it once more."

It was not what Gemma had expected. Not at all. "I'm sorry, what? You can't _retire_." It had never even crossed her mind as a possibility, even if Scott wasn't a spring chicken anymore.

"They offered me a desk job actually, head of a new field office in Vermont. A sort of pseudo-retirement, well, for me at least. But I am considering full retirement. Travel, pottery class, all those things that retirees do."

"But... you can't retire," Gemma repeated.

"Contrary to popular belief, LaRoche, I didn't just spring into existence as a middle aged FBI agent, nor do I intend to work this job until I die."

"But," Gemma sputtered. It was just... inconceivable. "Remember my interview? How I was trapped in that elevator with Chang for an hour beforehand? He was giving me tips because he said you'd be intimidating as hell. Which, by the way, was totally accurate. And he said to me 'Parker's a Bureau dog. He lives and breathes it. He's been in the department longer than anyone else and he'll probably be there long after we're gone. His ghost is going to haunt the bullpen after he dies, which will happen when he's like two hundred but still looks sixty and he'll go out in a blaze of glory while defending the world from aliens or something.'" Gemma gave a watery smile. "And I know he was joking of course, but really Scott, what else could tear you away from this? This is who we are. It's our whole lives."

It seemed as if Parker was physically wounded by her words. His face twisted into a weird emotion that looked a whole lot like despair, and that was fucking terrifying to Gemma, because Parker's face rarely shed its badass-motherfucker stoicism. "Gemma... I know you used to believe that, and so did I. I let it ruin every relationship in my life. I lost the love of my life because I loved this job more than anything. But when I thought you and Patrick were dead... when Patrick _actually_ turned out to be dead... I _can't_ believe that anymore and I know you can't either."

Gemma felt the war waging in her head. Because God, did she love her job. But she had promised Thorin she would fix things. And Parker was right.

Of course.

"But who's going to replace you? I mean, I can't even imagine it."

"Well..." Parker drew out the word, looking as conflicted as he ever had. He gave her a pointed look.

And I took Gemma way too fucking long to understand the implication.

And then it hit her like a freight train carrying a load of holy shit.

"No. No fucking way!"

"Language," was Parker's reply, and Gemma felt the urge to throttle him.

"But you just said... You just said, Parker… and you were right! And I... I'm messed up. Like, I don't care if I've been cleared for field duty, I can't... Jesus, after the shit I've seen? After the things I've done? How could you _ever_ think I would be a good candidate for a leadership position?"

"Actually, I think you'd be perfect for it. I always did, since your first year on the team. But that's my professional opinion. As your friend… I meant what I said. You and I, we've given too much to the Bureau already, and we'll keep giving because we're like drug addicts. But there are more important things and you've found that. God, or whoever's up there… the Valar, did you call them? They gave you this chance, to be part of something bigger than any of this. Part of something bigger than the universe. And what you have with Thorin... you don't mess that up. But that's not my decision to make. If you want it, I will recommend you wholeheartedly for the position."

A small part of Gemma that she hadn't even realized existed wanted that job so badly. Had always wanted it. Because then she could say she'd done it. She'd made it all the way to her goal and somehow fulfilled her need to avenge her father.

But what good was that anyway?

"I just can't."

Parker nodded his approval. "Alright. Then here's my plan."

As he laid it out, Gemma felt the overwhelming urge to hug him, because Parker was still looking out for her. And there were no words in any existing language which could come close to expressing her gratitude to this man.

This was it. It was perfect, for her, for Thorin, for her and Thorin. This was how she would fix everything.

* * *

 _Present_

"Surprise!" Gemma tore her hands away from Thorin's eyes and he opened them to the remnants of her living room. It was bare, save for the mountains of cardboard boxes piled up in a haphazard pyramid.

"What in Durin's beard..."

Gemma's grin was too wide now. It looked like it might split her face in two.

"We're moving to Vermont."

And maybe that would have been more exciting to Thorin if he knew at all what it would mean.


	12. A Fresh Start

Chapter 12: A Fresh Start

" _It may not be the life you imagined, but it's your life. You came here for a reason. Is it time for you to go and begin again?"_

― _Doug Cooper, Outside In_

* * *

Vermont turned out to be a place. A state, more specifically, to the north and close to the border of Quebec, the land from which Gemma's father hailed. Gemma and Thorin sat at the kitchen table, now strangely bare of all its regular clutter, and consulted a map. Gemma was attempting to persuade Thorin of the sheer genius of this plan. So far he failed to see it.

"See, here, is where I got the house. Well actually, Parker got it, and it's sort of a house, more of a big cabin, really. A ski chalet."

"Gemma, are you quite certain…" He was trying to be reasonable, and not get, as Gemma would say, completely pissed about the whole thing.

"Yeah, I know, right? Never thought Parker would be the skiing type. I always thought he'd be more into pro wrestling, or kickboxing, or causing brain implosions with the power of his death stare. But apparently he used to go up there all the time, so he knew a guy who was selling and…"

Thorin cut Gemma off with a sigh. She had missed his point by a wide margin, and he wasn't sure if it was intentional or not. As if he even knew what skiing _was_.

"I meant, are you quite certain that it is a good idea to move so suddenly. Your job is here. I just got settled here. I finally know my way around a bit. I've been talking to the people at the gym, some. You have your apartment and your neighbours and your favourite restaurants…" Thorin felt the strangest sense of panic. It would be an entirely fresh start, again. It was coupled with the indignant frustration of being entirely left out of the decision. Once upon a time, he had been the one who made all the life altering choices. Settle in the Blue Mountains, embark on the quest of Erebor, go this way, make camp at this time… now he was just along for the ride, helplessly dragged in Gemma's wake.

Perhaps Gemma understood more than he thought, because she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed his cheek, saying, "I'm sorry I didn't ask you sooner, _mon amour_ , I thought it would be a nice surprise. I see that I was wrong. But you have to trust me. This is perfect. We won't be living in a city anymore." She poked the map. "We'll live here." Tiny letters announced the name of the small town as 'Recovery'. "I thought that was quite funny. Recovery, Vermont; just the place to go for a mentally unstable FBI agent and her otherworldly lover in need of a fresh start."

She kissed his cheek again. Thorin could tell she was really laying it on thick. Gemma was desperate to convince him of this. So Thorin asked, "And what, exactly, is this place like? How do you know it is such a better fit than here?"

"Wellllll," Gemma drawled, some excitement edging into her voice at the prospect of Thorin warming up to the idea. She held up a finger. "One: Recovery is a small town, more similar to that of Lake-town or your colony in the Blue Mountains. Probably smaller than even that. And we wouldn't live in the heart of town either, so we would have a nice degree of privacy, which would make keeping all our secrets much easier." She held up a second finger, counting off the second point on her well-prepared pros list. "Two: the people in Recovery are probably a zillion times nicer than here in DC. People in DC are notorious assholes, probably because of the high concentration of politicians. People in small towns are, supposedly, quite friendly and communal. I don't know, I've never really lived in a small town. Which brings me to point C. No… point three." She grinned at her falter, jabbing another finger in the air. "It'll be an adventure, Thorin! A brilliant fresh start in a place neither of us have ever been. Which means we'll be on slightly more even ground when it comes to being in a foreign place. And four: it's less than an hour's drive from Burlington, where I'll be heading up the new Bureau satellite office. And it's less than two hours away from Montreal, where my father grew up, which means I can take you there and we can get Montreal bagels and go to the Jazz festival and all that awesome stuff on a holiday!

"And finally, point number five," she said, gleefully raising her thumb to signify the final argument, "You'll live on a mountain again. Well, not on, but right beside. Our backyard is basically Mount Mansfield State park. Which means wilderness and… and Middle Earth-iness. You know, it'll be more like home."

And it was that very word which sold Thorin. Not Gemma's detailed and orderly list of arguments in favour. It was the word _home_. Because this had always been Gemma's world, Gemma's city, Gemma's apartment, Gemma's bed. Since arriving here he had felt like an intruder, or a guest, invading someone else's space only temporarily. DC was not, and could never be, home. And the more Thorin thought about it, the more Gemma's excitement began to rub off on him, until he felt almost giddy at the idea of it all. She was right; this would be a new adventure. On the road again, having an adventure with Gemma, just like the good old days.

And so Thorin Oakenshield replied, "Alright then, amralime, let's move to the land of Vermont."

* * *

It was with great reluctance but begrudging acceptance that Gemma sold her beautiful motorbike. It simply was not practical for the forty-five minute drive along a state highway which she would soon have to undertake every morning to get to work. And so her badass burgundy Yamaha 1300 was replaced by a sleek but considerably less badass black Prius. Gemma never thought she'd be the type to drive a Prius, but hey, she never thought she'd be the type to travel to an alternate universe and fall in love with a dwarf king either. So the whole Prius thing wasn't that big of a deal, when put into perspective.

Thorin, on the other hand, claimed to like the new car, which was less monstrous than the FBI SUVs and less terrifying than her motorbike (he had ridden with her on it only once, but had firmly declared that it was one time too many). Thorin was, in fact, approaching this whole situation with a sort of unprecedented positivity, an impromptu flip of attitude which was really better than Gemma could have hoped for.

The majority of her furniture, the stuff she was actually keeping, was stacked into a small moving van by the two teenage boys who lived down the hall, whom Gemma had given thirty bucks each. The various boxes of books, kitchenware, and clothes followed, and in only a few hours her apartment was bare. It was, admittedly, a small apartment, and Gemma had never been much of a collector, preferring a minimalistic approach in order to avoid unnecessary clutter. Other than the books and various inheritances from her father, as well as her exercise equipment and an astounding amount of junk-mail and paperwork, she really didn't have a whole lot of _stuff_. It struck Gemma as a bit depressing that the last seven years of her life had been spent in DC, and it had all been uprooted and packed into a single truck in just four hours.

Thorin, on the other hand, had almost no packing or preparation to do. In the three months Thorin had been in this world, he had accumulated only a few pairs of track pants, shapeless shirts, and socks, all of which Gemma had picked up on the fly at rather cheap stores. It could barely be called a wardrobe, meant more for utility than style, and it all fit into one of those reusable plastic grocery bags. Gemma vowed that, as part of their fresh start, she would take Thorin shopping to get some real clothes. He had a few of the books Gemma had bought him too, but most had been borrowed from the library.

If Thorin found this depressing, as Gemma did, he didn't let it show. He continued to be rather chipper. Well, chipper for _him_. He assisted the boys in moving some of the heavier pieces of furniture, grumbling all the while about their pitiful lack of muscles and the importance of regular and consistent training which the young men of this world seemed completely ignorant to. This display of grumpiness, more than anything, told Gemma that he was in a genuinely good mood.

* * *

It was sudden, certainly, but perhaps, Thorin thought, a long time coming. Only yesterday Thorin had been stuck in this loop of tedium, and today he felt as if endless possibilities stretched out before them both. It was liberating. It was a relief. Squashed into the new car and watching the intimidating high-rises of the city fall away behind them, he felt like a young dwarf again. That sense of idealism and adventure, which he so often saw within his nephews, had once been present within Thorin, before tragedy and burden had hardened him.

"Will it bother you if I turn on the radio?" Thorin snapped back to attention with Gemma's words.

"Er… No, I suppose not."

"Really?" Gemma raised an eyebrow at him, her mouth twisting in a teasing smirk. "You're not going to freak the fuck out? You're not going to rail against the, and I quote, 'warg vomit this world dares call music'?"

Thorin scowled at her, and turned on the radio station himself, fiddling with the dial until he found the jazz station he liked.

"Well, colour me impressed. You know how to use the radio and everything. Pretty soon you won't even need me anymore. You'll be driving around Vermont, talking politics with the neighbours, and doing your goddamn taxes."

"Oh I'm sure you could make yourself useful somehow," Thorin countered, turning up the volume slightly. It was silent for a second as the first disjointed piano notes of a Thelonious Monk tune warbled from the speakers, and then…

"Did you just make a sex joke?" Gemma asked, incredulously, clearly fighting to keep her eyes on the road and her laughter contained.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," Thorin feigned innocence.

"You did! Jeez, just the fact that you made a joke is strange enough, but a sex joke?! Somebody call a doctor, I think you might be concussed."

Thorin said nothing, just hid his grin and slapped Gemma's hand away when she tried to change the radio station.

* * *

They stopped in Philadelphia for lunch, at a nondescript and somewhat shabby sandwich shop which had terrible coffee but made wonderful BLTs. The moving truck was far ahead of them by now, but Thorin and Gemma were content to take their time, though it would mean arriving at their new home quite late in the night.

"We are in Pennsylvania right now, correct?" When Gemma nodded, Thorin continued cautiously, "Is this not the place from which you were… taken by the portal to Middle Earth?"

Gemma sipped her coffee, made a face at its taste—which she had earlier stated resembled battery acid, though Thorin did not know how she could possible know what that tasted like, as he doubted she had a point of reference—and then drank some more. "Yup," she said, popping the "p". "Well, in this state, yeah. Fucking Pennsylvania. But it was way over on the other side. And hey, it turned out alright in the end."

Thorin recalled their first encounter, so many moons ago, after her SUV had crashed through the portal and into the boulders behind the troll camp. The memory wasn't exactly fond or amusing, what with the tragedy that had unfolded there, but looking back on the chaos of that day, Thorin could only see it as a sign of what their relationship was meant to be: tumultuous, crazy, and ever so exciting.

"You know, we'll be passing right by New York in a few hours."

"The town where you grew up?"

Gemma chuckled, but her mouth was full of sandwich and she ended up hacking a bit. "I wouldn't exactly call it a town, but yes."

Thorin tried not to be annoyed by her needless argument, and instead moved on to ask, "Would you like to make a stop there?"

Gemma masticated the last of her sandwich while thinking about it, swallowed slowly, and said, "Nah. It's too big, you'd hate it. Besides," she smiled, "we're moving on, right? No need to visit the past."

They left it at that, finishing their gherkins and coffees, and hitting the road once more.

* * *

"Do you want to try?"

Several hours later and they were stopped again, this time for dinner at a burger joint in Massachusetts, right near the southern border of Vermont. It being a fairly warm evening, despite having only a few days left of September, they had decided to forgo eating inside the restaurant, its loud music and tacky orange booths not providing the most enjoyable atmosphere, in favour of sitting on the hood of their car in the parking lot. The low hanging clouds were painted in brilliant oranges, and the couple starred off into middle distance, saying little, as the colours slowly drained from the sky.

"Pardon?" Thorin asked, not knowing what Gemma was referring to.

"Wellll, whoever built this restaurant clearly overestimated the amount of customers it would have," Gemma said, gesturing to the large parking lot that spread out around them, nearly deserted. "So I thought maybe you'd like to take Mr. Prius here for a spin." She patted the hood of the car fondly.

Thorin glowered at her. She knew by now that he wasn't going to understand what she was saying, and yet insisted on talking this way. So he waited for her to clarify, not willing to once again ask what on earth she was talking about.

"Chéri, the effectiveness of your glower is not nearly as intense when you have ketchup on your face," Gemma said, reaching over to wipe it off his face. Thorin just lowered his eyebrows further. "The car," Gemma finally deadpanned, though he knew she was internally smirking. "Do you want to try driving the car?"

Thorin blinked. "Are you… quite certain that's a good idea?"

"Nope," Gemma replied, eating the last bite of her burger, and then climbing into the passenger seat.

Thorin probably should have been the responsible one and insisted against it. But when had he ever been cautious? So, with minimal consideration, Thorin too finished his burger and climbed into the driver's side.

Gemma turned the keys and pulled the lever thing in the middle so that it was set to the notch labelled D, whatever that meant. "Right, so that pedal makes you go, that one makes you stop. Turn the wheel to steer. Don't crash the new car." Gemma probably should have given him a more detailed explanation, but that was all he was going to get. So, without preamble, Thorin jammed his foot on the gas.

The tires screeched and the car took off far too fast. Thorin wiggled the wheel, not really sure where he was meant to go, and the car swerved.

Gemma had braced her hands against the ceiling and the seat, momentarily shocked by the take off, but recovered when Thorin tried to arc in a nice smooth turn but ended up cranking the wheel too hard, throwing Gemma against the window. "Oh my God brake, brake!" she shouted and Thorin slammed his foot on the brake, throwing them both forward until the seatbelts snapped them back again.

The pair sat in silence for a second, their brains attempting to catch up to their bodies. Then Gemma sniffed, and then chuckled, and then laughed loudly. "Well, I'm not exactly known for my careful driving, but that was something else. The town of Recovery isn't going to know what hit them!"

Thorin, having finally gotten over the shock, chuckled deeply. "One might say that they'll be the ones in need of… recovery," he quipped with a gleam in his eye as they swapped places and Gemma settled back in to the driver's seat.

Gemma lowers her eyebrows in mock seriousness, pointing an accusatory finger at him as she merged back onto the highway. "Now I'm all for joking around, but don't you start making puns, Thorin Oakenshield. I draw the line at puns."

* * *

Thorin dozed in and out of sleep as Gemma drove the final leg of their journey. The radio was drifting between stations as they drove on the edges of signal range. Neither had the energy or the will power to change the channel, so it squawked quietly as they followed a twisting and nearly deserted road.

 _And here's tomorrow's weather brought to you by Ralph's Hardware Supplies, for all your home improvement needs…_

 _Your local station, bringing you the news and the blues, 107.4 Chitten County…_

 _Sunny with light showers expected later in the…_

 _Second day of the Fall Call indie music festival, featuring such bands as…_

 _Up next we're bringing you an old favourite by the late great David Bowie…_

 _In other news, an animal attack left one dead in Mount Mansfield state forest, though we have few details at this point in…_

 _Turn and face the strange ch-ch-changes…_

Thorin let the trivial prattle wash over him, his mind blissfully empty of thought, save for the woman beside him and the adventure ahead. And he was content.

* * *

When they finally pulled up the long and winding driveway to their new home, it was pitch black outside. The movers had already brought everything in, pilling all the boxes in the living area near the doorway. Gemma and Thorin were so exhausted from the long drive that they didn't even bother turning on the lights to look around. They grabbed their quilt and pillows and together hauled the mattress into the master bedroom at the back of the house, where the bedframe had already been placed. Still in their day clothes, the two sank into bed, haphazardly throwing their blanket over top of them. They curled up against each other and fell into the most peaceful of sleeps.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **I don't really have an adequate excuse to address a three week absence, even though I said I would be updating more frequently this summer. In fact, I'm only getting this done today because I took my camp kids bowling and was so exhausted afterwards that I napped when I got home and now I'm not tired enough to fall asleep.**

 **The more pressing issue is this complete change of pace in the story, which may seem a bit out of the blue. To be honest, this was meant to happen more quickly in the story, but I had writer's block and dragged out the beginning section way to long, in my opinion (too late to change it now though). So yeah, this is the new direction of the story, which will feature more plot (wow, how incredible!). Those reasons Gemma listed are the reasons for the move within the story, but I had my own reasons as well. Having never been to DC, and not being an American myself nor having a comfortable level of knowledge on their history or the city to confidently write about either, I could not continue to have the story set there or fulfill some of the things people wanted to see. On the other hand, Vermont is much closer to my home and therefore more familiar in climate, terrain, etc.** _ **and**_ **I have visited. Recovery is a fake town of course (and sorry for the very on-the-nose name, I really wanted to make that joke about the puns). Plus, I have a pretty clear idea of what I want to happen now (and one day I might actually write it all down instead of being a slacker).**

 **Thanks for sticking around, and an even bigger thanks to my fabulous reviewers!**


	13. Dinner with the Neighbours

**Disclaimer: I own my OCs, but the rest belong to far greater talents.**

Chapter 13: Dinner with the Neighbours

" _Good neighbors are worth more than an extra sixteen trees."_

― _David Mas Masumoto_

* * *

Thorin, ever the light sleeper, woke with the early morning light, streaming through the large bedroom window which did not yet have curtains. The bedroom, which he had not seen last night in the dark, was painted a dusty grey, with cherry wood panelling the floor and ceiling, and an old stone fireplace taking up the one wall. It was bare now, but Thorin imagined it would look quite nice once they had moved the furniture and decorations inside.

Gemma lay sprawled across the bed, still asleep, waves of hair hiding most of her face. Thorin chuckled and decided to let her rest. He dressed and left the room to explore their new house and find some breakfast.

The bathroom lay across the hall, and on the right was another small room, painted forest green and entirely empty. Perhaps to be used as a study or spare bedroom. Thorin followed the hallway left, back toward the front of the house. There was a back door leading out onto a large wooden deck that overlooked a small garden, seamlessly blending into thick woods. The hall came out into a small sitting area that attached to the kitchen and dining area. Here the walls were a clean white, but the dark reddish tone of the exposed wooden rafters made it feel cozy rather than stark. The kitchen cabinets matched this wood, as did the front door and the stairs leading to the basement. Thorin followed these stairs down, noting that the bannister was rather worn and the steps somewhat creaky. Perhaps his first project could be repairing them. The basement held four more rooms, all completely bare. One had another grand stone fireplace, and was clearly meant to be a lounge. Another was long and rather narrow. Thorin was not sure what that was meant for. A laundry room, perhaps, since there appeared to be a large sink inside. The third was a small bathroom, barely large enough for the toilet and sink it contained.

The fourth and final room was blocked by a large metal door which stuck when Thorin attempted to open it. With some jimmying, he managed to pry it open, the hinges moaning in protest. Inside was again bare, save for a large, roughly made, work bench. Obviously the previous owner had liked to tinker, or perhaps dabbled in woodworking. The workshop was by no means large, but Thorin was thrilled with the prospect of it. While he had, of course, never been a craftsman, apart from his brief and sour time as a blacksmith in the towns of men, Thorin shared the passion and talent for building and creating that was innate to all dwarfkind. Now he would have something to do while Gemma was working.

Thorin lumbered back upstairs and towards the kitchen, deep in thought about all the projects and things he could do in his new workshop. Barely paying attention to what he was doing, Thorin opened the fridge in search of milk and eggs, only to be brought up short when he discovered it was empty. _Of course it is_ , Thorin berated himself. The fridge had, after all, been brought in the moving van. It wasn't even hooked up yet. The cupboards, too, would be empty. They hadn't brought any food with them, and had arrived too late last night to stop at the little grocery store they had passed in town. Thorin wondered if he should walk to the store, but dismissed the idea, as they lived quite far down the road, and walking to the main street would take an hour at least. There was likely a small shop closer by, but Thorin did not yet know where and didn't feel like wandering around. He supposed that was the price they had to pay for this privacy.

Thorin contented himself in rearranging some of the living room furniture while he waited for Gemma to awaken. He dragged the armchair he usually occupied toward the fireplace, followed by the coffee table. Then he dug through the boxes of books until he found the copy of Virgil's _Aeneid,_ which he had just recently bought and begun to read.

He had perhaps been reading for only minutes, or perhaps hours, when there was the crunch of gravel outside, footsteps, and a rhythmic knock upon the front door. Gemma was still passed out in the bedroom, so Thorin tentatively crept to the entrance. Through the angled glass pane on the door, he could make out the shape of a small woman in a loud yellow jacket standing on the porch. She seemed harmless, so Thorin cracked the door open.

"Hi there," said the woman cheerily, "I've made you some cinnamon buns!"

"…Right…" said Thorin, utterly befuddled.

"Oh! Silly me, getting ahead of myself. I'm Phoebe Rothberg, you next door neighbour. Well, not _next_ door exactly. Like, down the road a bit, we're all pretty spaced out here. But you get the gist. So I saw the moving trucks come in yesterday and thought I'd bring you some food and get to know the new additions to our lovely little town." She said it all with a blinding smile and a high, bubbly ramble. Thorin wondered if this woman was physically capable of becoming angry. It didn't seem that way, with the massive smile permanently affixed to her face. He thought briefly of Gemma, and the angry fire of their first encounter, laughing internally at the strange juxtaposition. But the woman had brought food, so Thorin decided he could tolerate her bubbly disposition.

He gestured to the wooden bench that stood on the covered porch, saying, "It's quite a mess inside at the moment. Would you mind if we were to converse out here?"

"Oh, certainly not, Mister…?" Phoebe trailed off, clearly intent on discovering her neighbour's name.

Thorin decided to forgo the fabricated last name (he wasn't too fond of "Oakley" and fully intended to take on Gemma's last name, for the official documents at least, once they wed) and answered, "Call me Thorin."

Phoebe's laugh sounded like tinkling bells. "What a lovely name. Quite unusual. Where about are you from, Thorin?" She opened the tin she carried to offer him a large, gooey cinnamon roll, which Thorin grabbed quickly. He took a bite while he contemplated whether to answer Phoebe's question. Thorin had never been very open, and certainly not with strangers. But he supposed he ought to make a good impression with their new neighbour, and as he had previously assessed, she was absolutely harmless. Phoebe was short and slender, and Thorin thought that he could probably snap her in half with ease. The woman had to be in her mid-thirties, perhaps a year or two younger than Gemma. Unlike Gemma, her features were soft, with a round face, button nose, and softly curving muscles that indicated she worked out no more than once a week. Her hair was blond and pulled back in a simple braid, making her appear younger than she was. The overall impression was one of an innocent and naïve civilian, likely to have never seen true horrors beyond those on television.

Thorin swallowed his bite of cinnamon bun, which was absolutely delicious, and answered her question with the vague lie they had established when he had first arrived here. "Britain, originally, but we've just moved here from Washington, DC."

"We? Oh, have you moved here with your family?"

Was that a flash of disappointment Thorin caught in Phoebe's eyes? Surely not, for her grin never faltered.

"Just my fiancé and I. She's still sleeping."

"Ah," Phoebe said, and Thorin once more brushed off the notion of her disappointment, because the look was almost instantly replaced by another grand smile. "Well, I really must be going. Have to take my son to school. But I'll have to meet her later! You both should come for dinner tonight." Thorin barely had the chance to protest when she jumped in, "Now, now, I insist, not an imposition at all, and besides, you'll be busy all day unpacking and you probably don't have any groceries. No, you must come to our place tonight. Next driveway on the left. How does six o'clock sound?"

"Well, I must confirm, but…"

"Wonderful," Phoebe took his words as an absolute, beaming as she delicately shook his hand and placed the large tin of cinnamon buns in his arms before bustling down the steps towards a Volkswagen beetle of the same sunny yellow as her coat. "I'll pick up some lamb chops from the butcher's. Do you both like lamb chops?"

Thorin called an affirmative, and with a couple more "nice to meet you"s and "see you soon"s, Phoebe was pulling off down the driveway, leaving a slightly flabbergasted Thorin in her wake.

"Who was that?" Gemma mumbled, shuffling out onto the porch a few moments later, still wearing yesterday's clothes and sporting impressive bedhead. To Thorin, her dishevelled appearance was pure, wicked sex, the very opposite of the ebullient innocence of the woman who had just left.

"Our new neighbour. She's invited us to dinner tonight."

"Oh?" Gemma questioned warily.

Thorin held up the tin on his lap. "She also brought cinnamon buns."

"Oh," Gemma said again, much more pleased.

* * *

Gemma tugged at her green silk blouse, the only thing that wasn't wrinkled in her luggage, as they waited for Phoebe to answer the door. "Don't you think we maybe should have brought something? Like, I don't know, a salad? A pie?"

"We don't have salad or pie. Our fridge is empty, Gem."

"Right, but…" Gemma trailed off in frustration. It wasn't like her to be nervous, but this was their fresh start, and she didn't want to muck is up. It had been going brilliantly so far. She and Thorin had spent all day moving furniture and unpacking boxes whilst pigging out on the (admittedly fantastic) cinnamon buns. They had finished most of the main tasks, and in record time. In fact, they would have been even quicker, but Gemma kept getting distracted watching Thorin lug various heavy boxes and things around the house, his taut muscles deserving of her appreciation. Already there was a lightness between them that had not existed since Middle Earth—and even in Middle Earth they had not been this way for quite a while, with all that happened as they neared the end of the journey.

So no one could blame Gemma for trying to bottle up this precious and rare time of easy happiness and preserve it forever. One dinner could tear it all down. _Of course_ she was nervous. Thorin, on the other hand, seemed completely calm, and Gemma wondered how. She would have thought that he was confused about her worry of arriving empty handed, but Gemma knew that gift giving was an important practice in dwarven culture. She would have thought that Thorin didn't see the significance of this fresh start to be as serious as she did, except Gemma knew better, could tell by his smile that this new beginning meant a whole lot to Thorin. Finally, she just chalked his lack of worry up to inherent regal composure, and experience with dinners far more important than lamb chops with the new neighbours.

Gemma did not have time to worry further, because the door swung open to reveal a young boy, maybe twelve years old, with large square glasses, curly blond hair, and a frown on his round face. He looked Gemma and Thorin up and down as if to evaluate them and, apparently finding them at least satisfactory, step aside and said, somewhat moodily, "Come in."

Gemma raised an eyebrow at Thorin before stepping inside. The kid seemed a bit young to be in the moody teenage phase. The couple stepped into a cheery entranceway, over-decorated with pictures and paintings and a large potted plant. Shucking their coats and boots, they followed the boy into a cozy sitting area which backed onto the dining room and kitchen. A mop of curly golden hair peeked out from the kitchen doorway. The woman, seeing her guests, rushed over to Gemma and Thorin with a massive grin on her face. She was still carrying a mixing bowl. "Hi there, nice to see you. I'm Phoebe. Phoebe Rothberg. You must be Gemma." She balanced her mixing bowl on her hip to shake Gemma's hand.

Gemma allowed her hand to be shaken vigorously by the vibrant woman, who had already bustled back to the kitchen before Gemma's mind had caught up. "You've met my boy, Oliver. Say hello to the new neighbours, Ollie."

"Hi," he said glumly, and Gemma couldn't entirely blame him. Having a mother as cheerful as Phoebe pretty much necessitated a sullen mood, if only to provide some balance.

"Now Ollie, be friendly please. I hope you folks like lamb chops."

"Hmm… oh yes, that sounds nice," Gemma said.

"Wonderful, they're almost done. I'm just getting the desert in the oven now, and then dinner will be ready. Please have a seat in the living room while you wait."

"Do you require any help, Ms. Roth… Phoebe?" Thorin jumped in, ever the gentleman.

"Well… now don't you worry, you're a guest," Phoebe smiled.

"I insist," Thorin replied, causing the woman to blush. Gemma narrowed her eyes, but went unnoticed by the two, who entered the kitchen.

Not knowing what to do, Gemma sank into a red armchair that was far too poofy, across from the couch where Oliver sat, playing with some sort of handheld video game. Gemma didn't know what it was, but she did not want to sit awkwardly in silence while Thorin and Phoebe chatted in the kitchen, so she crossed over to the couch and peered over the kid's shoulder. It seemed to be some sort of first person shooter game. Gemma watched as the opponents, who appeared to be car thief or bank robbers or something, shot the player, causing the game to restart. Ollie looked up and gave her a critical eye when Gemma sucked her teeth sympathetically.

"Next time you should, hide behind that dumpster in the far left corner, and aim a bit ahead of him," she advised.

"Do you play?" Ollie asked, obvious disbelief in his voice.

"No," Gemma said. She saw his shoulders slump with disappointment, so she leaned in and told him, "Trust me, I work for the FBI."

At his gaze of awe, Gemma knew she had won Ollie over completely.

Twenty minutes, and two levels further into the game thanks to Gemma's help, the pair was called to dinner. Thorin was carrying a heavy pot of rosemary roasted potatoes out to the table to join a heap of delicious looking lamp chops and a couscous salad. The whole thing looked fantastic, and the dessert cooking in kitchen—pineapple upside-down cake, they were informed—smelled just as scrumptious. It made Gemma feel strangely inadequate, which was just ridiculous. Sure, she could barely cook a pork chop, never mind lamb, but why on earth did that mean anything? She withstood torture, fought in battle, and just generally kicked ass, so her inability to bake fancy cakes shouldn't bother her in the slightest. But it did.

"Mom! Ms. LaRoche helped me advance two levels in Battlefield!" Ollie told his mother excitedly as they all found their seats at the table.

"Oliver, what did I tell you about playing that game. Especially when guests are here…"

"Oh, no, it's quite alright Ms. Rothberg—"

"Phoebe."

"Yes, sorry, Phoebe. It's quite alright. Your son was just showing me how to play the game. It was quite entertaining, if not realistic," Gemma assured her with a little smile.

"See Mom, it's fine! Ms. LaRoche is an FBI agent!"

Phoebe looked a little more closely at Gemma than she had before. "Really? How interesting. I suppose that must be why you moved her from DC, as Thorin said. I'd thought one of you must have been a politician."

"God no. I worked out of the counter-terrorism unit there."

"And now you're in Vermont…" Gemma heard the question hidden in those words, the ever so slight snub to it. Phoebe was thinking that Vermont was a step down. She was wondering what Gemma had done to be demoted.

"Yes, well, after nearly being blown to bits by a bomb, a change of scene was in order, don't you think?" Gemma ignored the look Thorin shot her as uncomfortable silence descended on the dinner table.

It was marred only by the scrap of forks and clink of knives until Ollie piped up. "Cool!"

"Oliver!" his mother reprimanded, but Gemma just laughed and laughed. His mother was a bit too much of a busybody for Gemma's taste, but the kid was alright.

The dinner went a little more smoothly after that. Phoebe, they found out, worked as a bank manager at the local Recovery town branch. They carefully lied and said that Thorin was a craftsman currently between jobs. Phoebe seemed much more enamoured with this idea, and dropped several hints about commissioning something from Thorin. Gemma thought it more likely that the woman was simply enamoured with Thorin, who was acting quite a bit more friendly and soft than his usual self. Gemma intended to ask him later where this diplomacy had come from, and where it had been when they were locked in elven dungeons.

Still, Gemma couldn't hate the woman, who was obviously a single mother. She wore no wedding ring and there were no pictures of a spouse. And so, as a child of a single parent, Gemma had to sympathize with her in some way. Her overly cheery attitude was doubtlessly employed for the same effect as Gemma's snarky humour and Thorin's perpetual grumpiness—holding it all together in the face of life.

After dinner they ate cake and drank tea in the living room while Phoebe chatted about the general goings-on in Recovery. The upcoming fall fair, the recent animal attacks in the state park, the small boom in tourism the town enjoyed when ski season descended upon them. Gemma tried to pay attention to the inane chatter as best as she could, while at the same time offering Ollie suggestions as he struggled with his video game. Thorin seemed to handle the conversation well enough anyway, and Gemma knew that Phoebe preferred his attention, so she didn't really feel so bad.

Gemma and Thorin departed with many "nice-to-meet-you"s and "let's-do-this-again"s, and a square of leftover cake in a tin to take home. The drive home took only a minute, and soon they were pulling up the gravel driveway to their new house.

Gemma shifted the car into park, turned to Thorin and said, "Our new neighbour has a thing for beards."

"Pardon?" Thorin spluttered.

"Oh come on, she was totally making eyes at you."

"Gemma I haven't the faintest idea…" Thorin was blushing red. Jesus, he hadn't even noticed. Gemma laughed uproariously.

"Well, I can't imagine what she saw in the rest of you, so it must have been the beard," she teased.

"Oh? And what, pray tell, are your thoughts on my beard?" Thorin smirked suggestively, all embarrassment lost.

"Eh, I could take it or leave it."

Thorin chased a cackling Gemma all the way back into their new bedroom.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **Guys, why am I so bad at updating? You must be tired of me apologizing by now, but I really am sorry for all the long waits. Thanks for sticking around, and reviewing too! I'm about to begin university, which is terrifying but also exciting, so here's a chapter in celebration of that, and the end of work and summer.**

 **Also, I've had some very good guesses about what's going to happen next. Are you guys psychic or something? Don't worry, even the best guesses won't be able to figure out** _ **everything**_ **that's going to go down.**

 **My goal is to get the next chapter out in the next two days before I leave for school, but I haven't written it yet so let's be real, that's very unlikely.**

 **-JensPen**


	14. There Goes the Neighbourhood

**I'm a terrible person. And yet, despite no update for _months_ , people have continued to read and follow this little story. Bless you all.**

 **Returning to this story after such a long time, and in fact this chapter which has sat patiently in my hard drive for ages, has forced me to re-evaluate a few things, particularly the pacing of this story because oh my god does it drag. So I've altered the plot outline a bit, and sped things up some so that from here on out things will actually start** _ **happening**_ **.**

 **So here it is, a holiday gift to you, from me, your indebted fanfiction author.**

 **Disclaimer: No amount of begging or wishing would ever turn me into someone with the property rights to the Hobbit.**

* * *

Chapter 14: There Goes the Neighbourhood

 _It's not necessary to go far and wide. I mean, you can really find exciting and inspiring things within your hometown._

— _Daryl Hannah_

They had a week to kill before Gemma started her new job, so they decided to scope out the town. The road in was long and twisting, just confusing enough that if one didn't know where they were going, one would never be able to find the couple's house. This placated the warrior in Thorin's brain, which was constantly on the lookout for weaknesses in their defence despite the fact that it was no longer necessary.

Downtown Recovery could scarcely be called so. It consisted of one long road, creatively named 'Main Street,' which was lined with shops and restaurants and the like. Aside from a large Macy's and a few fast food chains, the stores were small independent businesses. It was so utterly different from midtown DC that Thorin had a hard time believing the two places existed within the same world. He found that he already preferred their new home and all its closeness. Main Street reminded him of the market forum back in the Blue Mountains, which was ridiculous because it looked nothing that. It just felt the same.

The first order of business was to stock up the refrigerator, which they had hooked up that morning. Gemma pulled the Prius into the tiny lot in front of "Mark and Mike's Local Grocers", as the hand painted sign above the door pronounced. She grabbed junk food and cereals while Thorin, the designated cook of the house, searched for the real food. He had expanded his repertoire in recent weeks, pushed by boredom and his new found mastery of the Google search to try some new recipes, with varying success.

They met both Mark and Mike at the checkout counter, a friendly middle-aged couple with heavy Minnesotan accents who had apparently moved here nearly thirty years earlier to open up their shop. The couple warmly welcomed them to the town, chattering amicably as they rung up their groceries and loaded them into brown paper bags.

At the recommendation of the pair, Gemma and Thorin walked down the street a block to a small bakery, which smelled of fresh bagels and held row upon row of cakes, cookies, chocolates, and scones. The owners, an old man and his German wife, sold them a dozen sesame bagels, and insisted upon giving them two maple scones on the house, as a welcome present. Already it seemed that this new town was too good to be true.

They went back to the house to drop off the groceries, munching on the scones on the way, before returning to Main Street with one goal in mind: the complete overhaul and creation of Thorin's wardrobe. Which meant a lot of shopping. Thorin was unsure what he thought about that.

Truth be told, Gemma felt completely shitty that she had not bought him better clothes yet. Walmart sweat pants and shapeless t-shirts were not really a wardrobe at all, even if Thorin enjoyed how comfortable they were. "Keep 'em as pyjamas," she told him, dragging him towards the large revolving door of the department store. Thorin didn't really get much say. Gemma walked through the store as if on a mission, until a large heap was collected in her arms, which she shoved into a change room along with Thorin.

He was surprised to find that he didn't hate all of it. The clothes were certainly strange, but with a couple months in the new world now under his belt, he felt comfortable enough to embrace whatever came his way. Except…

"No," Thorin said as he exited the change room to model a pair of jeans which fit far too snugly to his posterior.

"Oh yes," Gemma said as she blatantly ran her eyes up and down.

They compromised on a much looser fitting pair of jeans, which they purchased 3 pairs of, along with several flannel plaid shirts which Gemma claimed gave his a 'sexy lumberjack' look, a couple dress shirts of various pale shades, and a charcoal suit set which Thorin had chosen himself.

The wandered further down Main until they found a small leather store, where they purchased boots, oxfords, and sandals. Gemma bought herself a pair of suede ankle boots which Thorin admired despite doubting her ability to run in anything with such a heel.

By the time it was all said and done, evening was setting in, and the pair, after stowing their purchases in the car, decided to walk further down the street and perhaps find a place for dinner. The sky was a murky purple and pink and the late October sun sunk, and the air tasted fresh. By no means as crisp and clean and virgin as that of Middle Earth—they were, after all, less than an hour from a modern city—but fresh nonetheless. The sidewalks were ragged and the wooden telephone poles which dotted the street were full of rusty staples from old flyers, but all in all, the town was beautiful in a cozy way.

Thorin's keen ears picked up the sound of music and laughter, and so he steered Gemma in that direction. They came upon an old flour mill made of large river stones, which had been converted into the aptly named 'Old Mill Inn and Pub'. From the raucous sounds flooding out the open front door, it seemed as if the whole of the tiny town had gathered there. Thorin quirked a questioning eyebrow at Gemma, to which she answered with a twist of her mouth and a tilt of her head. Together the couple made their way into the pub.

Inside was warm and bright and lively, full of townspeople young and old. The conversation lulled slightly when the pair entered, as local inquisitive eyes scanned them both. The pub goers quickly turned back to their conversations, with a new topic of gossip. Thorin and Gemma ignored it and found empty stools at the bar, each ordering pints and sitting close.

Not all were content to speculate in hushed tones amongst themselves, and the pair was soon approached by a middle-aged woman in a black apron. "Hello folks," she said in a husky voice clearly marred by cigarette smoke, "haven't seen you around here before. I'm Marianne, the innkeeper. And I would reckon, if I had to, that you two are the couple that moved in just down the road from our Phoebe there." Gemma and Thorin stared, and Marianne chuckled. "It's a _very_ small town."

"It certainly seems so," Thorin replied neutrally, trailing off as a lanky older man in a colourful plaid suit made his way over to them.

"Marianne, m'dear, are these friends of yours or are they the newcomers the whole town has been abuzz about?"

"The very ones, sir."

The man beamed and grasped Thorin's hand, shaking it heartily, "Albert Oldrich, I'm the mayor of this fine town." He switched to shake Gemma's hand with equal vigour. "I'm so pleased to welcome you both. We really are a tightknit community but I am sure that you folks will fit right in, with all the kind things that Phoebe has been regaling us with. I hear you are a craftsman, Mister..."

"LaRoche," Thorin said firmly, and pretended not to notice the look Gemma gave him. "Please call me Thorin. This is my fiancé Gemma."

The old man pulled up a bar stool while Marianne returned behind the bar and leaned in on what was clearly no longer a private drink between the couple. Thorin didn't really mind though. Dwarven taverns had always been the rowdiest of places; he felt himself settle in quite comfortably. Mayor Oldrich was a peculiar sort of gentleman, the kind who at first appeared frail but held a twinkle in his eye that made one think he had as much life in him as any young man. He and the innkeeper interrogated Thorin about his "business," which was a bit tricky considering it didn't actually exist yet, but Gemma was there to jump in with a seamless lie whenever Thorin floundered for an answer. They kept the conversation light for the most part, the two townies offering the pair advice and informing them of Recovery's traditions and event.

"So, Marianne, do you get a lot of business at the inn here?" Gemma inquired while sipping slowly at her second beer, already one behind Thorin, who'd discovered a strong ale much more to his tastes than the Molsons Gemma preferred.

"Oh yes dear. In a few weeks when the frost comes in and we get a nice blanket of snow we'll start to get some skiers coming in, and by December the town'll be packed with 'em. We've got two ski hills about fifteen minutes from here, on Mount Mansfield there. In the summer we get a fair few hikers as well, it's only a ten minute walk to the Sparrow's Ridge Trail in the state forest there. Got some hikers lodging with us right now actually, though it seems a bit late in the year for that to me."

"Well perhaps we'll give it a go before the winter comes in. Thorin and I have done our fair share of forest trekking," Gemma said, sending a sly wink Thorin's way, which made him chuckle and peck her cheek.

"Oh you two make a lovely couple. You must tell us how you met," the Mayor insisted, and Thorin shared a glance with Gemma which was far less teasing than the previous. They had moved into a small town which seemed to run on gossip; they had better get their story right.

But the pair was saved from answering when the door of the tavern was flung open with a dramatic crash, causing silence to descend on the crowded room. A middle-aged man in large boots and a beaten up bomber jacket stood in the doorway, an expression of panic written across his face. "What is it, Barry?" Marianne implored the man from behind the bar. Clearly he was one of the townsfolk.

"The animal attacks in the park… there's been another. I was driving on the North Road there—"

"But that's not too far from town. I thought they were happening much farther into the forest," Mayor Oldrich interjected.

"They were in the ditch right on the side of the road. Two of them… Hikers, they must have been, coming from the Sparrow Ridge Trail. I didn't recognize them, but I, uh… it was hard to make out faces when they'd been…" The man, Barry, was breathing heavily, clearly in shock, as the other patrons were.

Gemma locked eyes with Thorin for a moment, and then stood. "Marianne, you said the other attacks were in the park? Call the state troopers and the town police." She dug her badge out of her pocket and flashed it, approaching the man still standing in the doorway. "Sir, I'm with the FBI. I need you to take a few deep breaths," she said, placing a hand on the man's shoulder and waiting until he calmed down a bit. "Now I need you to tell me exactly where the bodies are."

He gave shaky directions which Gemma instructed him to repeat to Marianne so she could relay them to the authorities. Then she made her way to the door, turning back to gesture for Thorin to join her. They ran in the direction of the bodies.

The attack sight was alarmingly close to the main stretch of town. They slowed as the approached, the dark outline of mangled bodies just becoming visible when Gemma put out her hand to stop Thorin.

"You need to wait here. We can't contaminate the scene." She glanced behind him, and Thorin looked as well. A small crowd had followed from the pub. "Hold them back for me," Gemma directed him. Thorin wanted to protest. He'd seen his fair share of bodies, probably more than she had, and felt a bit affronted at being told to hang back. But he knew that things were different here; here he was a civilian and Gemma was following standard procedure. So he nodded and made his way towards the crowd, while Gemma went the opposite direction, towards the bodies.

* * *

Gemma pulled on a pair of latex gloves that she kept in her purse as she approached the shadowy mass in the ditch. Tall pines lined either side of the road, striping the cracked pavement with crepuscular rays and shadows. Gemma to a second to acknowledge the surreal blending of her realities in this moment, for it seemed at once as if she was back in Middle Earth, and yet, here.

She climbed down into the ditch and stood before the pair of corpses, finally able to make out all the gory detail which she could not from afar. Despite years of experience, she had to turn her head away and push her stomach back into submission, for the sight before her threatened to expel the liquor in her belly. Gemma adjusted her purse strap so that the bag stayed behind her, and then squatted down and reached out to the bodies. It appeared to be a man and a woman, judging by the patches of hair left on each of the heads. They were tangled around each other, as if in an embrace in their final moment. The faces were unintelligible, gashes and mauled and caved in parts. The bodies were equally desecrated, whole chunks of flesh missing, midriffs and appendages alike slashed and torn. The smell had not yet built up—this attack had happened recently—but soon it would be as horrific and the sight of them.

Gemma heard sirens approach, and blue and red lights soon flashed across the bodies to reveal the gruesome details more vividly. Gemma was about to stand and approach the troopers and police, but the flashing lights drew her attention to a detail she had not yet noticed. Instead, she waited for them to come to her, leaning over to get a closer look at a particular gash on one of the corpse's shoulders.

Pounding feet, and then a man's voice gruffly shouted, "Ma'am move away from the bodies please." Gemma did not, instead thrusting her badge towards the two park rangers and the police sheriff who had approached her. She straightened up from her crouch as they lowered their weapons.

"Please?" she questioned the sheriff, a tall man in his mid to late thirties, just as she was, who sported a scruffy beard and a hastily put on uniform. "That's the nicest I've ever heard a policeman approach a potential murderer."

"What?" The man looked confused.

"Yeah, what's a Fed doing out here anyway?" One of the troopers, an older man with a large mustache, interrupted. His partner, a younger woman who appeared to be pregnant, elbowed him and gave him an exasperated look. Clearly the rangers were inexperienced in this area, so Gemma answered the question but directed it towards the sheriff.

"I live here. Just moved in. I'm to head up the new Bureau office in Burlington, starting next week. But, as fate would have it, I seem to have stumbled right into our first case. I'll be calling in my team tomorrow and we'll take over from here," said matter-of-factly, directing the last part to all three of them. The rangers, who had caught a glimpse of the bodies behind her and had each gone a bit green in the face, seemed perfectly willing to allow her to take over the scene, but the sheriff did not. He stepped towards her with a wrinkled brow, somewhere between confusion and confrontation.

"Now listen, ma'am—"

"—That's Special Agent, sheriff—"

"—I don't see how a few animal attacks, albeit gruesome ones, have anything to do with the Feds. They've happened in a state park, state park troopers have jurisdiction, and are being aided by the police of the local towns. We are all quite capable of taking care of this."

The unspoken "and we don't need some fancy Fed from the city coming in to one-up us," was quite blatant in his town. Gemma did not appreciate it.

She took a step forward, into the man's space. Unlike with her early confrontations with Thorin, she did not have a height advantage, but her withering gaze made up for it. "You're right, sheriff, a few animal attacks would normally fly under the Bureau's radar, even when they occur both in and out of a state park in such a short, successive period of time." She walked towards the bodies, the sheriff following, and crouched down where she had been previously. "However, I would appear that either this is an entirely separate case, or your medical examiner has made an incredibly amateur mistake with the previous two victims, because _that_ ," she jabbed a gloved finger towards the large gash on one of the body's shoulders, "was not caused by any forest animal. That's a knife wound."

She looked the sheriff straight in the eye, "We've got a murderer on our hands."


	15. So Have You Ever Seen a Dead Body?

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hobbit. Obviously.**

Chapter 15: So Have You Ever Seen a Dead Body?

" _There has been a lot of murder and a lot of intrigue. My poor little heart can barely take it no more."_

— _The Office, season 6 episode 10_

* * *

Gemma had to wait for the medical examiner to arrive and then would take the car and go to the police station, where she'd likely remain through most of the night, so Thorin caught a lift back to the house from Marianne. He arrived to an empty house and, with all of their shopping still in the trunk of Gemma's car, changed into one of the pairs of old sweatpants that had been relegated to pyjamas now. Thankfully, they had dropped off their groceries at the house, as they had not had the chance to eat dinner at the pub as planned, so Thorin set about making some scrambled eggs and beans on toast. And then, seeing as there was no point eating at the table by himself, he carried the food and a beer—for he hadn't finished more than half of his drink at the bar before the excitement had begun—to the couch in the living room, where he sprawled out, munching away while idly flicking through television channels.

It occurred to him then what a strange picture he made; how much he had acclimated to his new world. He could be any average man of twenty-first century Earth, eating dinner in front of the television because his fiancé wasn't home to tell him what a mess he'd make. He could be Ross from _Friends_ , that sitcom Gemma kept trying to get him to watch. Although he was fairly certain Ross had not, in a previous life, been a warrior king, or battled with a dragon. Or perhaps he had, Thorin mused, who's to say? It would probably put a very interesting spin on what Thorin thought (but never told Gemma) was a rather bland program.

Thorin chuckled to himself, but, as Gemma wasn't there to explain the thought to and share a laugh with, it died in his throat rather quickly. He settled on a hockey game, one of the few things that both he and Gemma both enjoyed watching—him because of the fights that would occasionally break out, and her because her French-Canadian background required her to do so. It was a sport that Fili and Kili would most likely have appreciated, Thorin was certain, not to mention Dwalin and Dori. And Thorin suddenly felt that terrible heavy feeling in his gut that always seemed to flare up when he thought of them all—survivor's guilt had been one of the words offered by his admittedly odd google search, or perhaps homesickness. Both rubbish, he thought. He just missed them, was all, especially when he didn't have something suitable to distract himself with.

Solving a murder, for instance, would be a wonderful distraction. But Gemma had shut him down immediately when he'd brought it up, since most FBI agents didn't usually work with their fiancés who were, at least in this particular universe, technically civilians.

Thorin understood, of course, but that didn't mean he would not stubbornly begrudge the fact. It was his nature. He just wished there weren't so many bloody rules in this place.

* * *

Gemma took two Tylenols in the small, unisex bathroom of the town's near-non-existent police station. The town had a total of five police, all men, most of them inexperienced or at the age of retirement. Their sheriff, one Arthur McDormand, was somewhere in between. Add in four park troopers, including the two that had originally arrived on the scene, and the small station already felt cramped. The state of carefully contained panic among their ranks did nothing to appease this constrictive feeling, and everything to induce the mind-numbing headache Gemma was currently trying to relieve.

She, apparently, was the only one among them with any experience with murder cases, beyond that police academy training and procedural shows on the television. Once the two agents and technical analyst assigned to her new Burlington satellite office joined her tomorrow, the weight would be somewhat more dispersed, but for now she had the sole responsibility of guiding them—a police force who usually only dealt with drunk ski tourists—through a murder investigation.

One which was potentially the work of a spree killer, if those previous animal attacks turn out to have similar human involvement.

The door to the bathroom opened, which was surprising since it was one of those single ones and Gemma was sure she had locked the door. Sheriff McDormand shut the door behind him and asked her, "So what are we going to do now?" as if this was a regular place for a conversation, or perhaps a briefing room, and not a washroom.

"I thought the door was locked," Gemma said, because she was sure she'd pushed in the little button on the handle.

"It's broken. Has been for ages."

"Well I didn't know that! I mean, I could have been peeing and you would have walked right in on me!"

"I would have left if you had been," he responded casually, as if that was at all the point. Gemma just stared at him, and he stared right back, waiting for an answer.

The man was probably around her age, and was a giant, at least 6' 5". Gemma herself was quite tall for a woman, and was not used to the odd angle she had to crane her neck to in order to speak directly to him. His broad shoulders, thin scruff, and rural-sounding accent gave him a distinct "farm boy" image, so that even in the stiff lines of his pristine uniform, Gemma had no trouble imagining the man in a flannel shirt and baseball cap.

"Look, is this the best place to talk about this?"

"You came in here to get away from all that," he point to the closed door to indicate all the bustle of the station on its other side, "and think for a minute. Now you've had your think, so tell me what I'm supposed to do with a murder in my tiny town here."

Gemma rubbed her hand down her face and let out a long-suffering sigh. "Look sheriff, it's just like I told everyone else: we have to wait until the medical examiner has done a full autopsy on our two victims and reconducted the ones for the victims of the other two supposed animal attacks so that we can be certain whether they are related and understand the extent of what we're dealing with here."

"But the ME agreed with you in her initial observation, didn't she? Those marks you pointed out were knife wounds. So we have at least two victims." The sheriff was a lot more worried than he at first seemed, Gemma could now tell.

"Yes that's true. Listen here's the play-by-play of all this: crime scene techs on loan from the city will be coming in along with my team. They'll examine the site for physical evidence, we'll look for the bigger picture. Any crime scene evidence as well as the ME's finding will go towards us figuring out the identity of these two victims. That's first. Hopefully it will also give us some cause-of-death details and something about who might have done this. We'll also have to cover the entire hiking trail there, and canvas the town for info about the couple, starting at the inn. If the ME's examination of the other two victims does not definitively declare them victims of animal attacks and suggests similar foul play, as I very much suspect it will, we do the same for them. Look for patterns in the victimology and in the crime scenes. Look for any possible motive. Then we go from there."

The man paid rapt attention and for a brief second Gemma worried he was overwhelmed by it all, but then his back straightened and he nodded seriously. "So then, is there anything we should do immediately or should I send my guys home?"

Gemma nodded, "The county ME's office is too small to have those results in before morning. Right now it's just admin work really; coordinating with everybody, laying out some preliminary assumptions, dealing with any press that might come out of this. I'll deal with all that, the rest of you can go home, sleep for a few hours if you can."

"I'll stay and help." Gemma opened here mouth to retort, but he continued, "Don't worry, I have no problem with you taking the lead on this. But I've been sheriff here for several years, and lived here even longer. This is my town. I need to be doing everything I possibly can right now."

Gemma couldn't really argue with that, so she nodded and said, "Let's get out of the washroom and get to work, then."

* * *

Thorin looked up from the television when there was a knock at the door. This was unexpected… few people even knew them here, let alone where their house was and how to get there. He tensed immediately, instinct driving him the approach the door cautiously, muscles tensed and ready.

It proved unnecessary, as opening the door reveal not an enemy, but a twelve-year-old boy. Ollie, the neighbour's kid. "My mom told me to bring you this pie. She was baking today," the boy said as a preface, and brushed by Thorin as he walked in the door without invitation. Just like in his first encounter with Phoebe, Thorin allowed it because of the baked goods.

Unlike the previous time, Ollie seemed much more enthused to be here, and Thorin quickly found out why as the boy followed him into the kitchen. "So has there really been a murder?"

Thorin raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

"Only Ms. Laurence phoned my mom to say that she heard from her sister who heard it from Mrs. Jones, who heard it from her husband who was there at the pub tonight and said he followed some FBI lady and her husband out to see the dead bodies on the North Road. And my mom, she says the Ms. Laurence that the new neighbours are a couple, but they're only fiancés you know, but anyway she's pretty sure the woman there is an FBI agent, and there can't be many other FBI agents around in a town like this so it's probably her. And that's when she remembered that she had baked a pie for you guys so she sent me here to drop it off." They boy said it all in one breath and Thorin wasn't sure whether to laugh or be impressed. "So? Is it true?"

"Yes, I… well this isn't something to gossip about, but it appears that there has indeed been a murder."

"Cool!" Thorin did let out a bit of a chuckle at this. The boy reminded him of his nephews in their younger years, and even a bit into their later ones, of their naïve fascination with war and violence. "I mean, not cool," the boy continued, "that's bad and all but…nothing ever happens in this town. And a murder in a small town, that's like, right out of the movies."

Having not watched any movies about small town murders, Thorin had no frame of reference, but nodded anyway and offered the boy a ginger ale. He could tell that Ollie wouldn't be leaving for a bit.

"So have you ever seen a dead body?"

"Of course I have," Thorin snapped automatically. _When Smaug desecrated Erebor, at the Battle of Azanulbizar, when my own nephews were killed…_

"What? When? Only I heard Ms. Laurence tell mom that Mr. Jones said only the police were allowed to go see the bodies and everyone else had to stay far back. So when did you see them? Or was it other bodies? Have you seen lots of bodies? I bet Mrs. LaRoche has since she's a special agent and all, which is so awesome, but mom said that you were a woodworker or something. So how could you have seen lots of bodies?"

"I could make out the rough outline of the bodies tonight from way back where everyone else was standing. I have very good eyesight, that's all, son."

"But you couldn't see any blood or anything?"

"Alright, I think it's time you headed back home." Thorin shepherded the boy towards the door.

When he had put his coat back on and walked out onto the porch, Ollie turned back around. "It wasn't anybody I'd know was it?"

"They don't know yet, but I believe they think they were likely a pair of hikers staying at the inn," Thorin assured him.

"Oh. Well uh, sorry to bother you Mr. Thorin. My mom says 'Hi' by the way."

Thorin waited until the boy had walked all the way down their long driveway before shutting the door. The house was silent again.

The boy's enthusiasm was just…well, boyish enthusiasm, Thorin reminded himself; ignorant to any real understanding of violence and death, propelled by heroic fantasies. Thorin had to remind himself of this because a very small part of him couldn't help but share in Ollie's naïve excitement. Though he should know better, though he'd get nowhere near the case anyway, Thorin's soul could not help but yearn for what had once driven it like blood pumping through a heart; he ached for adventure once again.

* * *

 **AN:**

 **Wow look an update without a month-long gap in between. Anyway, sorry the chapter isn't particularly good, but set up is always necessary. Also, I really could not find a suitable quote or chapter title, but it's late and I'm tired and I wanted to post while I still had the time and focus to do so. Thanks for reading.**


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